


C'Thia

by Medie



Series: c'thia [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Star Trek Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loving someone doesn't mean you understand them. Loving a Vulcan definitely means you don't. Christopher Pike's in love with his science officer, Spock might be in love with him, but that's not even remotely close to the end of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'Thia

**Author's Note:**

> Story features a cis-female Spock and is pre-movie. My thanks to alpha_hydra and mari4212 for their beta work. It is MUCH appreciated. My thanks to my creative partners in this big bang. Crediniaeth has created a fanmix for this story that can be found [here](http://community.livejournal.com/zellersee/18383.html).

He's in love with her.

He finds Spock sitting outside with a cup of saya, looking out at the horizon. She's just sitting there in the heat of a Vulcan afternoon, hair an artfully arranged mass of curls atop her head, looking like an oasis in the desert, and Chris is hers. That's the thing of it. Whatever else they are, whatever he's told himself in the silence of his quarters, that's the pure and honest truth. He's _hers_. Hers to command, hers to take, hers to do with as she pleases.

All she has to do is say the word.

The mystery of it is that she does.

Looking at him, Spock is a blank. He can't read her yet, not with any regularity. He wonders if there will be a day when he will. He thinks of her mother, the Lady Amanda with eyes that can still light with laughter after decades on this world, and wonders what secrets she might divulge on the matter.

What she will. With her daughter's eyes on him, Amanda's words become extraordinarily clear.

Spock tips her head, disturbing not a single curl atop it, and then holds out her hand. "Please," she asks and, for a moment, he sees her fear.

When his hand reaches for hers, he realizes it's shaking.

-

"Vulcan."

Sitting at his desk, Chris takes in the orders with a practised eye. "Are they serious?" It's not that he has anything against Vulcan, not really. It is the planet that gave him Spock after all. It's just the natural aversion a man has when a planet shows a steadfast dedication toward killing him. He hasn't taken a group of cadets there yet for survival training that _something_ hasn't tried killing him.

At this point, he's convinced that Vulcan either hates him, or Spock's having a hell of a time messing with his head.

Having played poker with her, he can believe that one actually.

"It would seem that they are serious," Number One says. She sits across from him with that perpetually amused look on her face. "Official orders from Starfleet Command don't particularly carry a sense of whimsy. Though, Admiral Komack is known to tend toward a rather perverse sense of humor."

True enough, but not in this case. Not with Commodore Wesley's name on the orders. "You could be enjoying this a little less," he grumbles, watching Number One's lips flirt with a smirk.

"I am not doing any such thing. This is an important summit, sir." Number One leans forward, picking up her coffee. The hell she's not. He knows her, and she knows he knows.

"So important that we're not actually cleared to know what they're discussing," Chris grumbles. He hates secrecy. He really, really hates secrecy and this is secrecy personified. Diplomats and Federation officials pulled from all over the quadrant for a hush-hush meeting on Vulcan.

"Do we have to?" Number One asks. She's right. There aren't many options that would bring the Federation out to play. "The Klingons are more interested in the Romulans right now than we are. Qo'nos has been making noises in their direction for months."

"It wasn't a Klingon vessel they destroyed," Chris says.

"It wasn't a Romulan ship that did the destroying," Number One replies, unruffled. "According to them, it wasn't one of their vessels."

"And the Romulan Star Empire always tells the truth," he shoots back.

Number One doesn't dignify it with a response. She crosses her legs and curls her fingers around her coffee mug. "They're afraid. Intelligence has their ships massing along their border with the Klingons. We may be looking at an actual shooting war within months."

"Or we might be looking at a smokescreen," Chris says. "That ship--the Kelvin was no match for it. If they have more than one, an invasion would be over before it started." And that's the part that has everyone worried. The reports from the Kelvin are fragmented and contradictory at best. The only thing anyone's sure of is that they were Romulan and they didn't _seem_ military.

He'd written his dissertation on the Kelvin, but his interest hadn't ended there. He's spent years puzzling over the ship's destruction and Number One's listened to more than a little of it.

"All the hallmarks of a rogue attack," she says, quoting his own words back at him.

He nods. "And the Empire's been silent ever since, but that doesn't stop anyone from worrying."

"Vulcans don't worry," Number One reminds him. "Worry is an illogical waste of time and resources."

"So they say," Chris agrees. He looks into his coffee for a moment. "Maybe I'm the one who's worrying."

"You're not the one who arranged the conference," Number One says.

"Summit," he corrects.

That gets him a grin. "Semantics, Captain?"

"Well, we wouldn't want our Vulcan friends to think we're imprecise, now do we?" Chris asks.

Number One sips her coffee. "Since when have you worried about their opinions, sir?"

It's amazing, really, how she can do that. One perfectly normal word. A form of address he's heard so many times as to be invisible, but on her lips it's something else all together. At the moment, it's just this side of playful.

He makes a face. "I'm worried about the peaceful invasion of a founding member of the Federation and you're giving me attitude."

"I am giving you no such thing," she says, matter of fact and laughing at him all at once. "However, I doubt the Vulcans are actively concerned about an actual invasion," she sits up, just a little, squaring her shoulders. "To borrow a phrase, I think they're grabbing the bull by the horns. You've seen the opinion polls, Captain. Anti-Vulcan sentiment is as high now as it was when they launched the NX-01."

Chris sighs, nodding. A hundred years of progress wiped out by one rogue attack. It would be funny if it weren't a potential disaster. The shared history of Vulcan and Romulus isn't the worst thing to come out of the Kelvin, but it ranks up there in Chris's books.

"If there's anything that might actually worry the Vulcans, it would be that," she adds.

"And they'd have every right in the world," he says. "Worlds. So, this is damage control."

"Or practicality. Vulcan has more to fear from Romulus than we do." Chris has no idea precisely where and how Number One made the kind of connections she has, but her sources are damn near infallible. "Two thousand years and the Romulans are still interested in going home."

"It's hard to picture Vulcan as the Garden of Eden," he says. Try as he might, however, his mind absolutely refuses to quash the image of Spock as a very beguiling Eve. A blink of his eyes and there she is. He sets aside the image of her, naked with no more coverage than the thick black hair spilling down over her shoulders, and tries to focus on his XO.

Tries. It's not an easy battle. No matter how many times he tries to remind himself that starship captains do not picture their Vulcan science officers as mythological figures, and they certainly don't do it while in conference with their Illyrian first officers. Number One might not be a telepath, but that hasn't slowed her mind-reading skills one whit.

"Perhaps not," Number One replies, apparently unaware of his momentary distraction, "but to the Romulans, it is." She crosses her legs, tapping her forefinger against her coffee cup. "The Vulcans can use that."

"It might work," he says. " _Is_ working. If they're conducting top secret security summits, then no one's taking it lightly." He can't blame them. Whatever political spin the Vulcans are attempting to put on things, there's enough truth in it to worry him. If the ship that had destroyed the Kelvin isn't a rogue, if the Romulans have more...

"It should," Number One says. "The Kelvin looks like an aberration, but it might have been a test."

"God help us if it was," Chris sighs. He slumps into his chair, letting himself picture that image. The Starfleet of today is nothing like the Starfleet of the Earth-Romulan war, but if there are more ships like that one the result will be the same. History repeating itself in a long, bloody mess of a conflict. "Cheerful thoughts, huh?"

"Practical," Number One says. She gets up to refill her coffee. ""The Vulcans would appreciate it." She looks at him, holding out a hand for his cup. He passes it over willingly and starts digging in the cabinet behind his desk. There's a bottle of something non-regulation in here somewhere and he scrunches down to look inside, which serves to muffle Number One's voice as she says, "One particular Vulcan especially."

He puts the bottle, old and a little dusty, on the desk and lets her do the honors. Number One takes her time, pouring a precise measure into each mug before sealing it once more. She hands back the bottle, and he puts it away. "Funny how it always comes back to her."

Number One smiles. She doesn't sit down right away, circling the desk to look at the artwork on the wall. It's an old print, Mojave as it was before the Third World War. He watches her survey the picture until it becomes obvious she's waiting for him.

"In this case, however?" he prompts, picking at the PADD on his desk. Reports are piling up by the second, a number of which are probably ambassadorial requests for their accommodations and he'd be cringing if not for the promised fun of his yeoman's notations.

"Personal interest does intersect with practicality." Number One's personal opinion on his non-relationship with Spock is, well, as much a mystery as most everything about her. She's never stated her opinion outright, but there is a certain fond amusement to her comments on the matter that puts him at ease.

If she had any true and valid concerns about his feelings, or the potential relationship that might develop from them, theirs is not a friendship where she couldn't express them. He chooses to take that she hasn't as a good sign.

"I have an idea of where you're taking that, but I think I want to hear it out loud." He half-smiles, "If only so it's not all in my head."

Number One turns at that, fleeting empathy in her eyes. "Human distrust of Vulcans was, for a time, nearly incorporated into the Terran identity. While it was not eradicated, it has been lessened over the years."

"Until the Kelvin." He cited that in his dissertation too. The whole thing had resulted in the kind of rhetoric the Federation Council had never before witnessed. Debates over Klingon aggression had never gotten that heated.

She nods. "Yes. Spock is a child of two worlds at odds with each other. Before, it was ideology. Now, we have discovered one of our greatest enemies is kin to our greatest ally. An enemy Earth fought a protracted and bloody war with while Vulcan offered marginal assistance."

"The story all but writes itself," he sighs.

"As you would say, folks talk and, as such, Spock has lived her whole life in the midst of this conversation." Number One rubs her thumb along the handle of her mug. "I don't envy her that."

"Which says something," he murmurs then takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. Illyria and its culturally ingrained eugenics had generated no small amount of controversy. Number One's early days at the Academy probably hadn't differed much at all from Spock's.

He looks up, meeting her gaze. "You realize I admire the hell out of the both of you for that, right? You've seen us at our worst and stuck around."

"In the case of some, we like what we see." Number One smiles. Perhaps, for she and Spock both.

He excuses himself shortly thereafter. He needs to see her.

-

She's not hard to find. When she's off duty, the list of places Spock might be found is short. It's the wrong time of night to eat, she rarely ventures near the ship's recreation facilities, and she's not in her quarters.

That leaves one place. She's in her favorite lab.

If questioned, he knows, Spock would deny she had a preference of any sort. She would have a dozen perfectly logical reasons as to why she could consistently be found in this particular lab, not a one of which could be called favoritism in any way, shape, or form.

Spock is the best poker player on the ship, even if she rarely plays. Either way, he doesn't ask. She doesn't have to bluff. They're both logically satisfied with the situation and the irony of that description doesn't escape him in the slightest.

Therefore, she doesn't have a favorite lab and he absolutely believes that. Also pigs are capable of warp ten and the chief engineer is a pixie in her spare time.

The door's on privacy lock, but it slides open unprompted. She's a creature of habit to be sure, but so is he.

Inside the door, he stops for a moment. He always does. Whether she knows why, he doesn't ask and doesn't want to know. She lets him have his moment, and he's grateful for it. He doesn't ever think there will be a day he sees her like this that she doesn't take his breath away.

Saying she's a beautiful woman is like saying space is vast. It's an understatement of extremes, but it's a lie just the same. Spock is classically beautiful, generations of Vulcan breeding culminating in a tall, slender form topped by sleek black hair and dark, bewitching eyes. Like most members of her species.

On Vulcan, physical perfection is a matter of course, so naturally Spock is beautiful. To him, however, Spock is also unparalleled, and he has no idea where he gets the nerve to imagine anything about her.

Standing at a console across the room, still in her uniform, her hair swept up into an artful coil, Spock looks the same as she does every single day. Skin flawless, posture perfect, delicate tips of her ears set against the braid coiled about her head and he can't remember what he's supposed to do next.

That's why, of course, he's glad that she's Spock. That whatever his fanciful imaginings, she'll always be Spock of the cool practicality.

"Is there something that you require, Captain?" she asks, not looking up. Like always, she presents the picture of disinterest as she works, her focus seemingly entirely upon her work, but he somehow feels the focus of her attention anyway. It's a heady thing, that attention.

Chris isn't unaware of the Vulcan Effect. People have been talking about it since the very first day the T'Plana-Hath had touched Earth's soil and the first Vulcans had walked down her ramp. For two hundred years, Vulcans of both genders had been fascinating and, unwittingly, tormenting humanity, and he's definitely not immune to it.

Initially, he'd chalked his attraction to Spock up to being exactly that, but not now. He doesn't have the luxury of that kind of excuse. Not after years of serving at her side, years of living wrapped up in the spell of her presence. The Vulcan Effect's temporary at best; familiarity not breeding contempt so much as disinterest. Spock keeping herself aloof, separate from the rest of the crew, has done a lot to distance her. Crewmen passionately in lust with her one week would see themselves bored and moving on in the next.

He's still waiting for the disinterest to kick in. Even as he watches the process play out over and over again with the new additions to the crew. It's a painfully familiar cycle to watch. They transfer aboard, meet Spock, listen to that elegant, rough voice, follow her around like puppies while she ignores them, and move on when it becomes abundantly clear she's not interested.

At least, they do. Chris, unfortunately, isn't so lucky. Three years and her voice still feels like an intimate brush of her fingers against his skin.

Damn it.

"We're headed for Vulcan," he says. "Well, we will be once we swing by a few planets and pick some people up. I thought that you might like to know."

Spock does look up then. "You've received word, then?"

He advances further into the lab, weaving through the various tables and experiments set up on them. "You don't sound surprised."

"I am not," she says. The console in front of her beeps alarmingly and he's temporarily forgotten. She works quickly, almost feverishly, her gaze darting from the console to the screen and a video feed on it.

"Do I even want to know what that is?" he asks, nervous by the speed her fingers are moving.

"Not likely," Spock says. "However, it will not cause harm to the ship." From anyone else, that would be a joke, but she's not anyone else and he recognizes reassurance when he hears it.

"Imagine my relief," he says, dryly. "So, you're not surprised?"

"No," she says. "I have heard something of its planning for some time."

"Good, then maybe you can tell me just what the hell is going on?"

Spock shakes her head. "I cannot."

"That's not helpful," he chides, not that _he_ is surprised either.

"I apologize, Captain," she says, meaning it. "All I am able to say at this time is that the timing is advantageous. There is a larger convention of the Federation leadership being planned. It is one held bi-annually, assuming we are not in a time of war. Traditionally, it's held on Earth, but there has been movement toward off-world locations for some time."

"And Vulcan thought this would be the most logical time to make a play for having it there," he says. "Throwing in their little summit when no one was supposed to be looking."

"Forgive me, Captain, but you do not seem eager," Spock says, her gaze going back the console before her.

"I'm not," he says, sitting down. She keeps right on working, more than able to hold a discussion and work on the sensitive project at the same time. He's not insulted. The time he might have been is long past. She loves her work and he loves to watch her at her work. Surak was right. No offence is intended where none is taken. "The whole thing smacks of political shenanigans, Spock, and you know I've never been a big fan of politics."

"This is not a politically driven event, Captain," she says. "At any rate, you will not be called upon for more than cursory diplomatic duties. While I do not know the specifics of the Yorktown's assignment, I doubt it is anything more than basic security."

"You'd be right," he says. "Good guess."

"It was not a guess," she says, picking up a stylus to make notes on her PADD. "I do not make guesses."

"No, you don't," Chris agrees. "My apologies, Commander."

"An apology is not required," she says, laying the stylus flat again. He catches himself staring at her fingers, long and elegant, his imagination halfway to running away with him. "This is not your first trip to Vulcan, Captain. I see no logical reason that you would be troubled by it."

"I'm troubled by the context," he says, sitting down. It's a familiar picture. Him sitting in her lab, watching her work while they talk. It's one of the easiest places to find them both off duty. There's a comfortable feeling to it that doesn't bear close examination. "The few times I've been here before, I was either a cadet or an instructor escorting cadets."

"Survival training on the Forge."

"Precisely, few diplomatic skills are required in that situation," he says. "Le-mayta are terrible negotiators and the Sehlats just run you in circles."

It's a poor joke, but he likes the way her eyebrows rise. Just a little, disbelief intermingled with amusement, or the Vulcan approximation thereof.

"Sorry?" he offers, a chuckle rumbling beneath the word.

"I do not believe so," she says.

"True." He leans his forearms on the counter-top, watching readouts flick by on the screen before him. Around them, the computers and machinery hum comfortingly, lulling him toward relaxation. Some people listen to the ocean, Chris has his ship. Nothing relaxes him faster. His eyes stray toward Spock. Well, almost nothing. "I have to make nice, Spock. I _hate_ making nice."

"You have never shown distaste for diplomatic circumstances before," Spock says. She cants one eyebrow upward as she adds, "On the contrary, when I have personally observed your handling of such situations in the past, you have always performed more than admirably."

"Well, now," he says, "That sounds like high praise coming from you."

"I think you overestimate my experience, Captain," Spock says, turning her head. The sleek coils of hair on her head gleam beneath the overhead lights. He imagines what it looks like uncoiled, loose and long against her back

"A diplomat's daughter who hails from a very long line of diplomats and peacemakers? A line that extends all the way back to the biggest and best diplomat in Vulcan's history?" he grins. "I think that makes you more than an expert, Commander."

Spock inclines her head in agreement. "Sound reasoning, Captain."

"Thank you." He watches her turn back to her work, delicate fingers picking across the console with the grace of a concert pianist.

He watches her, content to let the silence stretch out between them until she finally breaks it. Vulcan curiosity – more reliable than any time piece.

She turns to get the stylus again. He has an image of the report those notes will generate. Number One will love the reading. "You have not stated the reason for your concern."

"No, I suppose I haven't." It's easier said than done, trying to explain the source of his feelings to her. He settles for the obvious and up front. "It's _Vulcan_ , Spock. If there was ever a planet I didn't want to play diplomat on, it would be this one," She'll draw her own conclusions based on that, but he doubts they'll be the same as his. She just can't see it.

This is her world, her people, and he wants to make her proud. He wants to do right by her and her family. She would say that it didn't matter, but to him it does. He has no claim on her, but that doesn't really matter, not in the eyes of her father or her world. Whatever the nature of their undefined personal relationship happens to be, his behavior is going to reflect on her. She's already a subject of controversy, he doesn't want to make it worse with bad behavior.

He doesn't want to fail. He doesn't want to fail her. "All right," he says, brisk. "Any suggestions on what to do next?"

She doesn't look up, but he knows that eyebrow of hers is creeping upward all the same. "Do you truly wish my advice?"

"It wouldn't hurt," he says. "It's your world, Spock. Last thing I want to do is go stomping all over it." He's not going to be sitting at the negotiating table. That's the province of the diplomats and public servants they'll be ferrying to the planet, and he's content to leave them to it. Whatever planning and debating will be going on behind closed doors, to say it's potentially the stuff of nightmares is putting it mildly at best. He just has to make nice and not embarrass his science officer in whatever rubber chicken, or the Vulcan equivalent thereof, dinners he'll be expected to attend. They're going to be setting policy that could very well lead to a Federation-Romulan War. "No need to make this more awkward than it's already going to be."

The Vulcan mastery of wordplay made conversation with Spock a series of mental callisthenics. Even as he speaks, Chris waits for her to draw up, straighten her posture, and then shred his comments, albeit as politely as possible.

She doesn't. Instead, she rests her hands on the console and looks at him. "Captain, permission to speak freely?"

He smiles. "You never need to ask that of me, Commander, you know that."

"And yet I persist," she says with a tilt of her head. Playful, if only in his estimation. "Please?"

"Ask away, Commander."

"You have said all that you have," she says, and he gets the sense of care and caution. She's nervous. "In doing so, I find myself wishing to know something else."

"Which is?"

"Your actual question," she says. "You have come here to ask something of me and, yet, you have avoided doing so. What is it?"

Even with his permission, there's a studied measure about the way she speaks. This isn't just Spock being careful. It's the practiced modulated tones of a Vulcan testing the waters.

It's downright unnerving, the way her eyes meet his, and he's grateful for the attempt at caution.

 

He exhales and thinks about his own response before offering, "I'm not sure, Commander, what you mean."

"With respect, Captain, I believe that you are." As she speaks, Spock leaves the experiment and comes to stand before him. There's a gentleness about the expression on her face. An understanding he hadn't realized she possessed. "Your words and actions suggest, Captain, that you feel a measure of concern for my well-being."

Which is putting it mildly, but he doesn't say that. To make that kind of an admission is to put something out there he just isn't ready to share.

"Really?"

She nods. "Yes."

"All right, well, you're not entirely wrong," he says, still taking care with his words. "It's a captain's prerogative to worry about the people under his command. I feel concern about the well-being of everyone in my crew."

Yes, most everyone. He's not lying when he says so, but as she would say, he is lying by omission. He's concerned for the welfare of his ship and his crew, but in that regard, Spock occupies a space all her own. Where she's concerned, his feelings go beyond a commander's natural instinct and he wishes he could regret that. Or, at least, he should. "I hope you don't feel patronized by that."

"I don't," she says, leaving her experiment to run silently. She makes her way to the replicator and, when she comes back, there are two cups in her hands. "Your concern is understandable. With the discovery of the previously unknown connection between Vulcan and Romulus, anti-Vulcan sentiment has experienced an unfortunate resurgence."

"A sentiment that you've experienced." It's not a question. Every Vulcan has. Especially those spending time on Earth. He's seen the reports, and it wouldn't be a surprise if those reports weren't on the Federation's agenda for the summit.

She presses the mug into his hand and then sits across from him. Posture perfect, she blows gently on the liquid and watches him as she does. "You seem bothered by this fact."

"I'm supposed to be," he says, annoyance and anger creeping into his voice. It's a conscious effort to keep his true feelings buried. The outrage, near fury at the idea of anyone mistreating her. He just hopes they're lucky enough never to run into any of them. It won't end well for anyone. "We're supposed to be beyond this kind of bullshit, Spock. Vulcan and Romulus haven't had any serious contact in two thousand years. You can't be blamed for the assault on the Kelvin anymore than Surak himself."

"Perhaps not," Spock says, "but it is understandable. When those we love are harmed, it is difficult to find logic strong enough to countermeasure our rage."

"Vulcans master their emotions," he murmurs, feeling the conversation shifting onto that nebulous ground they always seem to find themselves on. "Humans, however, have a harder time with it."

"I do not believe so," Spock says. "You have proven yourselves quite capable of it in the past. It merely takes an impetus to propel you to such ends."

"It sounds like you speak from experience," he says.

"First hand witness," she agrees with a nod. "Yes, but we do indeed feel them. It has not been easy for my mother, living on Vulcan these past years," she says. "Even less so for my father. It has been difficult for them to accept the other's pain."

She adjusts her posture, restless. No, belay that. _Nervous_. She's never talked much about her family. He knows from her file that she's highborn, would know that anyway by her carriage, and that even among the old and influential families, hers ranks as one of the oldest with the most influence. He grew up in a home obsessed with Federation politics. He knows her father's and grandfather's names as well as he knows the names of Jonathan Archer and Zefram Cochrane, but everyone knows the names of her parents.

His mother still talks about the day the marriage of Sarek of Vulcan and Amanda Grayson of Earth hit subspace. Controversy and speculation had run rife for months, years, and, to be honest, had only gotten worse when their daughter had applied to Starfleet Academy.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

She sips her coffee. "You did not. I brought Sarek and the Lady Amanda into the conversation. My reticence is only partly cultural, Captain. I am sure you are aware of the Human fascination for their personal life."

"Was just thinking about it," he admits, grinning. "Reading my mind, Commander?"

Spock looks faintly horrified. "Captain, I would--" her expression fades and she tucks her chin. He thinks, maybe, his teasing has annoyed her. "You are attempting humor."

"Only attempting," he nods. "As Number One can attest, my attempts at humor can't even be called marginally successful."

"No, she is correct," Spock says, "however, as a Vulcan, my comprehension of the concept is ill-informed at best. It seems, Captain, we share a deficiency in that particular area."

"Well, finally," he says.

She cocks a brow. "Explain. Please?"

"It took me three years to find something I have in common with you," he says.

"My apologies," she says, rising as the console behind her beeps. "If I had known you were searching to find one, I would have assisted you in your endeavour."

"Entirely my fault, Commander," he says, lightly. "I should have asked."

She looks back and, for a moment, he can see something in her gaze. "Yes, you should," she says.

-

He can't prove it. He knows it's pointless to even try. She's too damn careful and too damn good to ever make the kind of mistake that he'd uncover, but he knows it was her.

Standing in his quarters, Chris looks at the thick red book sitting on his bed and smiles. A copy of Surak's _Analects_. A copy translated into Standard, no less. He picks it up. He's not sure which part he loves more. That she thought to give him this...

Or that she'd effectively broken into his quarters, stood in this space, to do it.

-

He's been in love with her for months, if he's honest. Longer than that, even. Practically from that first moment on a Vulcan hill, staring down at a Sehlat that had been intent on tearing him and an unfortunate cadet limb from limb.

Looking down on Vulcan, Chris thinks it's fitting that he's here for this realization. Vulcan. After Alpha Centauri and the other human colonies, it's the first world human children learn about. The Vulcan language the first alien tongue they hear.

The first world that whispers to them to dream.

"You seem distracted, Captain," Spock says at his shoulder. He looks at her, perfect and formal in her uniform, and lets himself imagine her in the thick, ornate robes of her homeworld. He catches himself wandering, his imagination inviting his mind to picture removing them, speculate on what the fabric would feel like against his fingertips and how she might shiver as the cool evening air reached her heated skin. It's not so much the clothing, of course, as it is the temptation of the forbidden. The eternally unavailable Vulcan was a mainstay of fantasy long before either Sarek or Amanda were twinkles in their granddaddy's eyes.

"I suppose I am, Commander," he says, finding his voice. It's rough, strained, and her eyebrow flirts with rising at her noticing of it. If Phil's noticed, he has to be laughing at them. The captain with a crush on his science officer. The forbidden romance.

 _"Starfleet has no official regulations on the matter, Chris. It stays out of the bedrooms of its personnel as long as what goes on there is between consenting adults."_

Phil's words. One of their many discussions on Chris and his ill-advised crush. He looks at Spock, remembering the rest of it. Of Phil's amusement at suggestion Spock's reaction to his worrying that he couldn't trust her to keep separate the professional and the personal.

Chris almost snorts at the memory. It's not her judgement he trusts. Not that the current situation is any better. Sexual fantasies about his science officer while on duty definitely didn't appear anywhere in the captain's handbook.

"Might I inquire as to why?" Spock asks, looking concerned.

"Your homeworld is a little forbidding, Commander," he says with a smile. So is she, but that hasn't stopped him. Didn't even discourage him in the least. "Makes a man nervous."

She inclines her head, agreeing. "Not just men." Drawing in a breath, her gaze leaves his face to take in the planet below. The viewport offers a view of one of the southern continents. From orbit, with its small seas and large, sprawling landmasses, Vulcan looked savage and untamed. Hardly the birthplace of a logical, peaceful civilization or lovely, elegant women named Spock. "I admit I am experiencing apprehension at this moment."

"You didn't leave under good terms," he says. He doesn't know all of it, but he knows her father never approved of Starfleet or her choice to join it. He'd seen a brief discussion between the two on their last trip. A softly-spoken, but deeply divisive exchange of words that had said little but implied plenty. The Ambassador had expected, with her training complete, she would take assignment on Vulcan.

Not the Yorktown.

"No," she agrees, "I did not."

"He's worried about you," Chris says. "It is a universal constant, Spock, that fathers worry about their daughters."

She doesn't look at him and he wonders how they got to this place. It's second nature to open up and let her in, she's already taken unwitting ownership of his world and he thinks nothing of offering her that access, but she seems willing to give him liberties no one else can take. He tries to picture Phil or Number One standing here, talking about her father, and can't. Can't see the conversation going anywhere but badly, Spock walking away, her expression shut as tightly as an Alderbaran clam. "I do not pretend to understand Sarek," she murmurs, "but your reasoning does seem sound."

"Thanks," he says, "I think."

She doesn't look up immediately. Her skin seems a shade darker. She's blushing and he's embarrassed her. "You can sit this one out," he suggests, suddenly. "Diplomatic receptions are not the bailiwick of science officers."

"Perhaps not," she says, "but my duties extend far beyond the administration of the Yorktown's scientific departments."

He doesn't argue that. She isn't a diplomat, but with her family background, that's a mere technicality. It's inevitable that she will be. Starfleet is the career that she chose. After Starfleet, whether it's for the Federation or Vulcan itself, her life's path is set. She'll retire to Vulcan, assume the responsibilities that already await her, and spend the rest of her life wheeling and dealing.

It's a whimsical way of describing it, but it's not so difficult. Vulcan familial relations are downright byzantine, making anything but immediate family relations murder to figure out for an outworlder, but he's had some practice picking Spock's out.

He can see that. The beginnings of the woman she's going to be are already there in the way she takes position at his side. "No? Have you added babysitting to the list, Commander? I know my senior officers think I can't be left alone, but this is Vulcan. What could I -- " he lets the comment drop.

She doesn't. "The potential ramifications could be disastrous indeed. In this circumstance, however, that doesn't matter. I am already expected to attend as per family commitments. Since Commander One must remain aboard ship, I have been elected to serve as your escort." She moves toward the transporter pad, but not before he catches a look in her eye. "However, should you accidentally cause the secession of Vulcan from the Federation, please be aware that I will be most aggrieved."

She's a Vulcan, but if he didn't know better, Chris thinks she might be laughing at him. "And why would that be, Commander?" he asks, following her.

"As a citizen of two worlds, I would be forced to choose," she replies. "While my choice would, ultimately, reside with the Federation, the resulting legal tangle of the dissolution of my Vulcan holdings would be most---"

"Annoying?"

"Trying," she replies. "Thus, yes, Number One and I are in absolute agreement," Spock says, placid. She waits for him to take his place beside her before nodding at the transporter technician.

"About?"

"It is ill-advised to permit you off-ship unescorted."

"So, I can't be trusted to not get myself killed?"

"Or start intergalactic conflicts," Spock adds as the transporter takes them. "You must admit, Captain, you do tend to attract such at a rate which is most alarming."

"Hey," he says when they materialize, "I do _not_ cause intergala-" his sentence dies on his lips as the oppressive heat slams into him. It's worse than he remembers, much worse than he remembers and with the transporter, there's no chance to acclimate. A shuttle wouldn't be much improvement, but there would be that moment as you open the shuttle door, not the temperature controlled climate of a starship one instant and the merciless heat of a Vulcan morning.

It is morning, early with the sun barely cresting the horizon (though, to be fair, the horizon is Mount Seleya) but the wind is still uncomfortably hot against his cheek. It steals his breath and, for a moment, he sways with the weight of the gravity.

Vulcan is blistering.

"Breathe," Spock says at his elbow.

"I don't remember it being this hot the last time we were here," he manages, choking against the heat. His mouth and throat dry and he clamps his mouth shut, swallowing reflexively. He's tempted to lean against the wall beside him, but self-preservation kicks in before he can lay a hand against the deceptively pristine white stone.

"It was not high summer the last time we were here," she says, quite unruffled by the heat. She looks at him, equally deceptive in the morning light. She's comfortable. At ease. Looking at her, he can understand the requisition of heavier fabric for her uniforms.

He looks at her. "God, it wasn't winter, was it?"

She looks away.

"It _was_?"

"Hot as Vulcan's Forge," Spock says. "You have never wondered about the origins of that statement?"

He hadn't. Really. He's never given it all that much thought actually. He's desert born and raised himself, he's used to the wind hot and thin and never thought Vulcan would be much different. The few times he's been here, it wasn't, but now he suspects that was by design.

Spock confirms it. "Although the terrain is useful for survival training, Starfleet determined that attempting the Forge during High Summer would be -- "

"Ill-advised?"

"Stupid," she corrects.

"Imagine that," he says, fumbling for the tri-ox. "Starfleet Command actually did something right."

"At the strenuous assistance of Starfleet Medical, yes," Spock affirms. A hand on his elbow, she looks past him. "It would be advisable to get you out of the sun. You will adapt, but not immediately and it would be unseemly to collapse in the street." She gestures with her free hand. "There."

Chris looks at the gate. "Is that it?"

"No," Spock says. "The reception will be held later this evening."

He catches a look on her face that's a little unreadable, but a lot guessable. "You lied to me."

"I did not," she says, on a sigh. "It is high summer, Captain. If you will not wear a cool suit," and he won't, they both know, "then a period of private adjustment in is order." She gestures toward the low-slung building before him, partly obscured by a stone wall. "That is my house. The heat will not abate until long after sunset." She starts forward, steering him toward the ornately carved gate. "You require time to adapt. It would be unfortunate if you collapsed before T'Pau and the other Ministers."

"Looking out for me, Commander?"

"There is a small matter of self-interest," Spock says. She lays a hand against an obsidian panel. It's not obsidian, of course, some Vulcan alloy instead, but it looks it and his brain just isn't up to a proper identification at the moment. Not with the heat cloying at his skin and Spock so close he can smell the scent of her hair.

"Worried I'll embarrass you?"

The gate swings open. Chris catches sight of a tall, reed-thin Vulcan man before he disappears from sight. Tradition. Not wanting to intrude on the lady of the house and her barely-standing guest. He can imagine how they must look. He's glad Vulcans aren't prone to gossip, otherwise the town would be abuzz right now. Vulcan lady bringing home a scruffy outworlder.

"No," she says, matter of fact. "Purely a matter of survival, I assure you. If I were to permit you to come to harm, Doctor Boyce would have my head. He has told me so on any number of occasions."

"Yeah, well, Phil's a meddling old man with romantic notions in his head," Chris grumbles. It's too hot to care that he shouldn't have said that. In fact, he barely notices the double-take his comment gets him. He barely notices, and he forgets as soon as Spock waves someone else over, another member of the household staff, bearing two tall glasses on a tray. "Tell me that's something cold."

"Chilled _saya_ ," Spock replies. "It will help." She presses a glass into his hand and then he's being pushed into a chair.

The gate swings shut and, with the heat of the afternoon blocked by the elegant latticework overhead, he can breathe. He takes careful sips of the _saya_ , letting the lush fruit taste slide down his throat, cooling him from the inside out. Half the glass and he almost feels human again. "Thank you."

Spock takes a seat before him, her own glass held loosely in her hand. "For?"

"Preserving my dignity. The last thing Starfleet or the Federation needs is me falling flat on my face in front of the Vulcan leadership. Particularly with us trying to coax you into more integrated missions." Chris tips his head back, willing the sweat-damp hair at his temples to dry as he looks at the latticework. "That's beautiful."

"Function and beauty need not be mutually exclusive concepts," Spock agrees. "If we must shield ourselves against the worst of our world's heat, why should it displease the eye?"

"Flawlessly logical, Commander."

"We believe so," she agrees.

"More than believe," Chris says. "Last time I checked, your textile exports give the Vulcan Science Academy a run for it's credit-earning dollars." In this heat, he can see how one of the planet's major industries would be fabric-driven. Cloth that conducted heat away from the body would be like gold here. "You guys must be making a fortune."

It's a casual comment, but Spock still nods. "Essentially." She looks at him and he can see the faint glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "You did not mean me personally."

"I didn't," he agrees. "I make it a rule. Only one stupidly intrusive comment per day. We've already had ours."

Spock's brow furrows with practised confusion. She's getting better at that. "I am aware of no such conversation, Captain," she says, having given it a moment of 'contemplation'. "Rest assured, sir, if you were to cross such a line, I would make it clear."

"Good," he says, leaving it at that. With Spock, it's never a good idea to belabour a point. "So, this is your house?" Finishing his drink, Chris feels almost human again. Enough that he can see the way she's watching him and probably has through the entire conversation. If he didn't know better, he'd think she's worried about him.

Finishing her own glass, Spock takes them both and puts them aside. "Yes, after a fashion."

"After a fashion?" he echoes.

"I commissioned the purchase, but that was the end of my involvement. After my acceptance into Starfleet, it became clear that a residence within the city itself would be advantageous, as my personal estate is outside the city limits. On brief visits home, I do not spend time there. This seemed convenient."

That she doesn't mention her parents live in town is telling, but Chris makes no comment. He won't do that to her. Spock's family matters are, well, complicated. Complicated and none of his business. Officially.

"It's nice," he says, instead. "Reminds me of my place in Mojave." Which isn't that far off. There are theories to explain it, scientists amassing gigaquads of data on parallel development among similarly structured species, but it's pretty simple. Two arms, two legs, and a desert environment. The Vulcans had a higher tolerance for heat, but even they liked a break now and then. "Your estate manager has good taste."

"Indeed," Spock says. "It is suitable to my needs."

The Vulcan talent for flagrant understatement; even more famous than their ears.

"You know what the funny part about that statement is, Spock?"

Her eyebrow quirks upward. "I do not."

"You mean it."

He's confused her, he gets a glimpse of that in her expression, but she's too stubborn to acknowledge it. Instead, she rises. "If you will permit me leave, Captain, I must change." A brief hesitation and she clarifies, "Given the circumstances, Sarek has requested that I attend the reception as a representative of the family and not Starfleet."

He stands with her. " _Sarek_ requested?"

Spock hesitates and he freezes, almost afraid to breathe, wishing like hell he could call the words back. At least, the emotions that had coloured them. Not a half hour ago he was arguing Sarek's case, the understandable nature of a father's worry for his only daughter, and now he's gone and insulted the man.

Goddamn it, but he hates that she's a Vulcan sometimes. He can't regret who Spock is, can't not adore her, but Vulcan and its inhabitants present unique minefield. It's juvenile of him, but sometimes it feels like each and every moment is nother chance at blowing everything to hell.

He doesn't pretend to understand her family. He doesn't have a damn clue, really, what truly caused the rift between Spock and her father. Most of the time, he guesses and, some of those times, he forgets that she is different. Her thoughts are different, her world and its ways are different, and to subscribe human motives to their actions means making a potentially massive mistake.

Like blundering your way into insulting a woman's father.

He groans. "Spock--"

She exhales. In the dead silence of the courtyard, he can hear the intake of breath like a phaser strike. She's let him into her world by inches, painting a picture in brief flashes of colour. This is him shoving his foot in the door and pushing it wide open. He sucks in a breath as his mind races for a way out, something to give him a graceful exit and let them pretend it never happened.

He can almost feel her turmoil, but he knows better than to acknowledge it. He can't shame her like that. He won't. She's a Vulcan, more Vulcan in her way than Surak himself, and this is her _father_. Her family. He's read Surak. He knows what the Rule of Silences is and what it means. He has no standing in her life and no right to interject himself into a private family matter. Hell, Spock's treading close to the line just to hint at what that matter is.

He has no right, but he wants to. God help him, he wants to. His feelings aside, he has no claim on her. She hasn't recognized him as anything more than her captain.

Not her lover, not even her friend, and he's possibly blown both out of the proverbial water with two ill-thought out words.

She looks at him, stoic, and he can see the answer starting to form.

"Spock," he says again, apologizing without adding insult to injury by actually saying it. His hand goes out, instinct to touch her, but he stops himself. Doesn't make contact. It doesn't matter. She looks down at his hand, staring at it like she can feel it on her skin. "You don't have to answer that."

"No," she agrees, "I do not." Her fingertips brush his in the briefest of touches. "However, I will." He barely feels her skin touch his before her hand is gone, but the heat that floods him in reaction dwarfs the fire of the Vulcan sun. "The question was relayed through the Lady Amanda. It has been this way since the last time we spoke."

"When you took the Yorktown over a Vulcan posting?"

"Yes." Spock breathes deep. "As you say, fathers worry for their daughters. It is not logical, but nevertheless, it is. I could explain further -- "

"No, I think I've caused enough damage for one day," he says, half-smiling. "Families are the same on every planet, Spock." He's never had to choose between Starfleet and family obligations, but he's never had the eyes of two worlds watching every move he makes either. "I might not understand the details, but the gist of it is familiar."

He takes a step back, moving himself out of her personal space. He's tempted to make a joke. There's no way this is what she had in mind when she'd volunteered to escort him to the reception. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need," she says, looking up at him. "You are concerned. I cannot find fault with such intentions."

"Even if the actions resulting from those intentions are massively offensive?" he asks.

Spock considers it, then looks at him. "Ignorance is not an excuse for offence on Earth." There's a rueful note in her tone, it might have been amused if she were wholly human, and he has a feeling there's quite the story behind it.

"But not on Vulcan?"

She spreads her hands. "No offence is taken where none is intended." She's quoting Surak. He's familiar enough with the man to know that much. "That is among one of the first truths we learn. It is not so simple as that, of course, particularly when one is dealing with outworlders, but in this case, yes. I am the one who might claim offense, and I am a Vulcan."

Spock looks at him. They're nearly eye to eye and she is close enough he can feel the heat of her body, uncomfortable in the growing heat of the day.

"Thank you," he says.

She nods, once. "I must change. Come inside, you'll find it a marginal improvement."

"I'll take marginal over none at all," he says, ready to follow her wherever she'd like to go.

It's difficult to describe the way her eyes change. The look in them seems to warm with laughter, though that's not even close to the word he should use. Either way, her approval seems to wrap around him the way another woman's laughter would fill the air. "I surmised that you might." Without further explanation, she turns around and then disappears into the house. As her footsteps retreat, echoing on the stone floors, he hears others join her and cringes. Right. The servants. So he's not only made an ass of himself to Spock, he's made an ass of himself to her in front of a half-dozen Vulcans who've been entrusted with her personal affairs.

"Beautiful," he sighs. "Just beautiful."

Still berating himself, he pours another glass of _saya_ and resists the urge to pace. It takes a stern reminder that pacing on Vulcan will burn off the tri-ox shot faster and put him right back at square one. That and setting foot from beneath his shelter and into the direct heat of the Vulcan sun. A second of that and he closes the distance to the door in a few quick strides. The cool, modulated air of Spock's home closes around him and he lets out a sigh of relief.

"Thank God," he says, then laughs. A house terminal sits a few feet away, screen turned toward him to dutifully report the temperature handy about where the temperature of Spock's personal quarters usually sat.

The quarters he'd only set foot in once or twice, line of duty both, and found as oppressive as an oven. "Remind me of that the next time," he tells himself, catching sight of his flushed reflection in an ornate mirror above Spock's desk.

He winces at the look of his face and turns to sit down. His first time in a Vulcan's living room and he's too overheated to enjoy it.

He's too much of a lot of things to enjoy it. Sipping the saya, he lets himself smile, even if it's wry and weary.

Starship captains are supposed to be _better_ at this, damn it. He's supposed to be better at this. She's not the first Vulcan he's served with, not the first Vulcan woman either, and he's passably familiar with the culture. Blundering into the middle of a Vulcan family --

He mutters an oath and then blushes. Right. Vulcan ears. Ears attached to a house staff now wholly cemented in their disapproval of their mistress's guest.

"Captain Christopher Pike," he says, sighing ruefully. "The man who set Vulcan-Human relations back a hundred years with a four letter word."

"Not a hundred," Spock replies. "A decade at best. We are not unfamiliar with expletives, Captain."

He looks up and, this time, when his mouth goes dry, the heat has absolutely nothing to do with it.

She's gorgeous.

Spock is beautiful any day of the week. Severe and composed in her uniform, elegant in the few times he's seen her in civilian clothing, but in the traditional dress of a highborn Vulcan woman, she's a goddamn masterpiece.

Standing in the doorway, stunning in the ornate robes, Spock looks at him. "Is it suitable?" she asks, a voice soft and small. She's scared. Uncertain. It's not a look he's accustomed to seeing on her and it's a little unnerving.

He bites the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to stumble over his reply, "More than, Commander, more than."

She says nothing, but he thinks she's relieved. At any rate, she moves toward him, the dress making the barest whisper over the stones beneath their feet.

Offering her an arm is instinct. Spock surveys it with some interest, then nods as if she's just remembering the human custom. She takes the offer, but he doesn't miss the way she twists her arm, keeping the fabric of his uniform and her dress between their skin.

Right, Vulcan touch telepathy. The scourge of gentlemen and ladies everywhere. "I wonder what Miss Manners would make of it," he muses, remembering an old book he'd found his grandmother's attic.

"I am unfamiliar with her," Spock says.

"Most Vulcans would be. Most humans these days, for that matter," he admits. "She was a wise woman on old Earth. Pre-Wars. Her teachings have been pretty much lost to the intervening years."

"How unfortunate," Spock says, as they move toward the gate. "I would have enjoyed reading them."

"Probably not, but I think she'd appreciate your attempt at being polite."

-

Transport to the reception turns out to be a ground-car. It's gleaming white in the afternoon sun, fronted by two Vulcans. One man and one woman, both wearing clothing as formal as Spock's. The woman turns her head, red hair peeking out from beneath the white of her hood. Her eyes, sharp with curiosity, take in the both of them with a glance, and her companion moves to open a door for them.

Spock doesn't give it an after thought. She gestures him forward without so much as a hesitation. It's an unwitting reminder of the life she's led and how little he truly understands it. Possibly how little he truly understands her.

"I apologize for the method of transport," she says, as he slides into the car. The material creaks beneath him, but it's not leather.

"We can't beam in?" he asks, already suspecting the answer.

"Security has ruled it out," Spock explains. "Transport inhibitors have been installed around the estate." Sitting beside him, she plucks at the fabric of her skirt, moving it into place. His mom had always said that the best way to judge a Vulcan's mood wasn't watching their face. It's always in the hands.

Spock is nervous. The only question is why. He thinks it over, forgetting the puzzle of security for a moment. The obvious answer would be the impending reception. It's been a few years since she last saw her father, spoke to him, and the possibility of both would make even a Vulcan nervous, but somehow he doesn't think it's that simple. He looks at her fingers, watches her lace them together in her lap, and lets it go. He's been trying to solve the riddle of Spock for years now and is no closer than when he started. He's not going to solve it in one ride across town.

"In theory, good idea, but there are risks," he says, returning to the security matter instead. "Rules out ground assaults, but an orbital bombardment is still a problem. I assume there's an appropriate back up plan?"

"This is Vulcan," she says. "Should any vessel get past the Starfleet presence in the sector, there are measures in place."

"And this is where I say I'm missing something obvious, right?" he asks. The car starts, slow and easy, without a whisper of sound. Vulcan engineering at its finest. "I should note that's a rhetorical question. I'm usually missing something. It's my chief, but selfish reason you and Number One aren't off ruling the universe together. I keep you around to make me look competent."

Spock looks at him with one of those indulgent expressions she keeps in reserve. Probably for those occasions when Chris trips up and reminds her just how truly _human_ he is. Which, actually, isn't it if he's honest. If it were, he'd see it a lot more than he does. "Perhaps that is why we elect to remain with you."

"Oh?"

"Ruling the universe is counterproductive to exploring it, and, therefore, is a prison unto itself," Spock says. "If we remain to permit you the appearance of competence, then we are free to do as we see fit."

"Good plan," he agrees. "Scarily logical, but good plan. Now, you were about to tell me what blatantly obvious thing I'm missing. Something to do with this being the planet Vulcan."

"Correct," she nods. "Vulcan. A planet with a long, violent history of war after war. The last several of which were fought with nuclear weaponry and, at least once, antimatter."

Chris shivers. The conversation is as lighthearted as they get, but any mention of Vulcan's wars brings out the cold sweats. He's seen the deep scars on the face of T'Khut. Ones put there by antimatter explosions nearly two thousand years ago. The very tests, so he's read, that had propelled Surak from contemplation to action. "And?"

"And, as a result, many of the ancient clans took care and preparation toward surviving such cataclysmic assaults," Spock explains. "This resulted in an elaborate system of fortresses and subterranean passages – where tectonic activity permits, of course."

"Of course," he says, remembering to smile. She'll be expecting it.

"These passages run beneath the estate where the reception will be held," Spock says. "I consulted." An uncomfortable note creeps into her voice, enough to betray that this revelation is awkwardly made. "I have a certain familiarity with the area and its structure."

"Well, it is your backyard," he says and she looks away. Ah, so more than just a little familiar. He nods at that. "All right, so, I have a question about a question. Well, a question about asking a question."

That brings her gaze back to him. "Captain, has it not occurred to you that it would be far simpler to state it?"

"Of course," he says, grinning, "but I've put my foot in my mouth enough today that I don't want to risk doing it again. I'm not sure it's an overly personal question, so I'm asking if it's all right to ask."

"Your effort to be respectful is admirable, Captain," says Spock. "However, as you have not inferred the content of the question, I cannot answer it." She's a master at that. Dancing around the subject. Most Vulcans are masters, truthfully, but Spock elevates it to a level he's never seen before. He doesn't doubt for a second that she knows what he wants to ask, knows what he's leaning toward, and god, this is weird, even for him. Them. If there is a them.

"I'm trying," he says and takes a moment to breathe in and out. He can feel the tri-ox wearing off. The thin atmosphere bothering him more and more with every breath. He'll need another shot soon and he wonders how it must feel for her. If she's accustomed to this atmosphere then how uncomfortable does Earth's atmosphere make _her_? He makes a mental note to ask an actual expert about it, his knowledge of Vulcan physiology just isn't up to snuff and he'll be fixing that first chance he gets too. "It's just – I have no idea what I'm doing right now, Spock. With you I never actually do."

He looks at her, resplendent in her dress, and wonders just how many people it took to get her into that. The robes seem easy enough, the gown beneath deceptively simple, but this is Vulcan. Everything is deceptive and nothing is simple, even when it actually is.

She looks back, brow furrowing with confusion. "I don't understand, Captain."

"Chris," he says, hating the sound of his rank on her lips. At least right now. The few moments she's forgotten, called him by name, they're gold in his books. Those fleeting seconds of intimacy like manna in the desert. "Christopher. Whatever, just right now? Let's not worry about ranks." He smiles, but it's hesitant, reserved. "We're not on the ship, Spock. Here, you're the one with the real power. I'm just a lowly starship captain."

"I do not believe, _Chris_ , you are capable of being a lowly-anything." She's teasing him. He doesn't need the subtle light in her eyes to know that, but seeing it relaxes him nonetheless. He's so far over the line of proper right now, he couldn't find it with a warp ten engine and Number One at the helm.

"How long have we served together, Spock?" he asks.

She looks curious, but answers, "Three years, six months, twenty-eight days and -- "

"Good enough," he cuts in, grinning. "The three years would have done it."

"Perhaps," she says with that not-quite-smile of hers, "but you prefer it when I am accurate."

"Not _that_ accurate. Anyway, yes, three years, six months, twenty-eight days. In all that, you missed the part where your captain is socially inept, a bit of a loner, and generally better with quadrupeds?" He pauses. "Well, when he's carrying sugar lumps and Tango's in a good mood."

"I have," she affirms. "It is not displeasing to me. Were it not so, I would have requested a transfer to another assignment long ago. Vulcans are not interested in protecting dignity, Chris, as Humans seem to think."

There's something about that. About the way she says his name. Something that catches him off-guard, makes him want to demand she say it again. Not ask. Just blurt. She has that way about her. Delicate, royal, like a princess of some fable made flesh, watching him with those dark, solemn eyes that whisper secrets with every quick blink of her lashes. As capable as he knows her to be of honesty that's frank, bordering on cutting, it's difficult to believe with her looking like that.

"Good," he says. His voice catches on the word and he blushes, but Spock makes no notice of it. "Thank you."

"We appear to have wandered from our original topic," she says after a second's waiting. "You were going to ask me a question."

"I was," he says. "I hate putting my foot in my mouth, Spock. It's something I do a lot and I'd like to avoid that." He smiles. "I'd like to avoid it altogether, but I've never been good with fairytales." Which is a pity. In her dress, Spock looks like she's fresh from one, and he'd like very much to join her in it.

"You will not offend me, Cap—Christopher," she says, quiet. "You could not."

"The hell I couldn't, I managed it just fine earlier, didn't I?" he says, just as quiet. "The worst offense comes from the people we let the closest."

And there it is. It's out before he can stop it. An actual admission of just what's going on between them. No, not an admission, a presumption. He's let slip what he wants to see happen between them, not what actually is.

Either way, he has to bite back a vicious oath at his own stupidity. Three years of serving together. Three years of subtle looks, aborted conversations, and never once, coming this close to saying a damn thing. Until now. Chris catches his breath, looking at her, and counts the seconds until she speaks.

"Yes," Spock says, "I know."

He winces, but inwardly cheers at the same time. He's not sure, yet, that it's worth cheering, but all signs are optimal. He decides he can go with that even as he sighs, "And I just did it again."

"As I am within the confines of my own thoughts and you are not," she says, "please allow me to be the judge of that." She surprises him by laying a hand on his arm. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of his uniform jacket. "I am not offended by your comments, Captain." There's a sense of amusement as she looks at him. "Curious, is it not? We continually have this conversation when Vulcans are not so concerned with propriety as you might think."

"Aren't they?" he asks.

"No," she says. "My mother has been witness to that more than once." She pauses. "Only some of which have occurred beyond our home."

"You and your father?"

"Yes," she nods. "Our disagreements are renowned. I -- " she pauses, brow furrowing with confusion of how to proceed.

Mentally crossing his fingers, Chris dares, "It's not logical to disclaim love for one's parents. I read that book. Surak only asks you to master your emotions, not to eliminate them."

If she were human, he thinks, she'd be laughing at him right now. "You speak as an expert?"

"God, no," he laughs for her. "Forget Vulcan philosophy, I'm still trying to understand the good old fashioned Terran variety. I can think of more than one professor that all but gave up on me."

"I have not."

"No," he agrees, thrilled by how close to a solemn vow she makes it sound. "You haven't. To be honest, Spock, you're more forgiving than I would be in your shoes."

"How so?" she asks, visibly intrigued.

"How many cultures and races are there on Earth?" he asks. "How many of Earth's languages do you speak? How many of it's countries have you visited? And no, the United States and France don't count. Neither do visits to other Federation and Starfleet facilities in other nations."

She nods. "Many. I can list them if you wish."

"I don't," he says. "That's not my point. My point is, you and just about every Vulcan I've ever met have more than a passing familiarity with the cultures of Earth, but me? Humans? Most of us see Vulcan as a uniform culture. You know, I had no idea that there were Vulcans of differing skin tones until I _met one_? Hell, I thought you all came made to order with black hair and brown eyes. I barely, _barely_ speak Vulcan. Yet, to hear most humans talk -- " Chris spreads his hands, frustrated. He can't put the feeling into words, but there it is. His best attempt at trying to understand where knowing her has taken him. It's not just the conversation, not even close. He's felt like this for a while, even if he's never let himself articulate it before.

Spock nods. "I understand."

"At least one of us does," he sighs. "Because I really, really don't. The more I know you, the more I realize how little I really know about Vulcan. I learned the basics in school, a little more in the Academy, but that's as far as I've gotten." Vulcans are private, keeping to themselves, but they're not inscrutable. It's all there for the knowing, if any of them bothered to know it.

And that's the problem. He doesn't think many bother.

This time, Spock leans forward to catch his eye. "Despite what Starfleet would have you believe, Christopher, you are not responsible for the entirety of humanity. Once First Contact has passed, each species must speak for itself."

He doesn't quite believe that one, but to be fair, he doesn't think she does either. He doesn't see how she can, spending every day with everyone's eyes following her every move, just waiting for her to prove their worst assumptions of two separate races.

"I'd ask how I'm doing," he says, "but I'm afraid of the answer."

"You have no need to be, Christopher." She's watching him, frank in her appraisal, and the interest in her regard sets his blood to pumping. "If the whole of humanity were to be judged by your actions, I do not believe it would fare badly."

He doesn't quite agree, but then again, he never saw this coming. He's sitting in a ground car with his science officer, being driven to some kind of fortress to attend a reception for a summit he's not even invited to and discussing the state of Vulcan-Human affairs.

There's not much in this universe he wouldn't trust Spock with, but maybe her judgement on this one might be it. He's definitely sure he's not handling any of this right and he needs to.

She looks at him, serene in the afternoon heat. He smiles. "God, I hope you're right, Spock."

"I usually am," she says and he laughs.

"I know, that's what I'm banking on," he replies. "I'm not used to second-guessing myself." Which isn't precisely the truth. He second-guesses himself all the damn time. He just usually does it in his quarters with Number One, Phil, and a bottle of something damn old and damn expensive. Captain's prerogative.

She doesn't correct him, but she's not fooled either. She tips her head, line of her neck drawing his eye, and her eyes take on a satisfied edge.

She did it on purpose. He grins. "Something you'd care to share, Commander?"

"I think not," she says. "We have done quite enough of that, _Captain_."

She's teasing him - he thinks - but there's a ring of truth there too. For a such a deeply private woman, for a _Vulcan_ , there's no way their conversations haven't been awkward.

"Spock -- "

"Perhaps later," she says. "I do not believe, were we to have this conversation, I would find myself capable of the focus this evening will demand."

Chris isn't sure he can trust his judgement with the combination of the day's heat and the intensity of her eyes bearing on him. He decides not to. "Understood. Conversation tabled. How about we go back to something a little less compromising," he says. "How much of this summit is your family's doing, exactly?"

She squirms. It's subtle, but he can feel it in the twitch of her fingers. Fingers he'd forgotten were resting on his sleeve. It's his turn to squirm, hoping that he hasn't revealed more than he'd intended to because of those abilities of hers. "If you aren't comfortable answering the question," he says, "feel free to suggest another subject of conversation."

"I am not," she replies. "In my time in Starfleet, I have endeavoured to distance myself from the family. Not out of any feelings of shame, understand, but the appearance of impropriety."

"I can understand that," he says, respecting it. "So, the reception?"

"There is a fortress near my family's home on the edge of the city. Although it is held in trust by the government of Vulcan, it is ours by right of conquest. We seized it centuries before the time of Surak and have held it since. The fortress is beneath a mountain and is known as Pelasht."

"I've read about that one," he says, content to remain on the subject for a while. She's relaxing, her hand slipping back into her lap. "It's built over a freshwater spring right?"

"One of the few free-flowing sources of water for thousands of miles," Spock affirms. "Not a concern for us any longer, of course, but in the past, wars were fought over it."

On a desert world, gold didn't matter. Water was the only form of currency that mattered and her family controlled the most of it.

He shakes his head. "Sometimes, I forget." It's easy, but that's no excuse. Vulcan isn't Earth. The people on it aren't human anymore than their motivations are. He tries to picture the wars of Vulcan's past playing out between the countries of Earth and just can't. "Two thousand years ago, your people were experimenting with antimatter."

"Some of them were," Spock corrects. "Others were still living beneath the control of Ancient Rome."

He groans, head thumping back against the headrest. "Right, and here I go again."

There's a definite ring of amusement in her voice when she replies. "In your defense, Christopher, I have chosen the path of my father's people. As much as I am born of two worlds, I have obligations to Vulcan and do identify as such." He thinks that for all he's amused her, there's hurt there that he can't possibly begin to comprehend.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Some day, I'm going to get control over my mouth. In the meantime, I'm just going to have to keep on apologizing for the damn stupid things that keep coming out of it."

"And I will assure you that I am not offended," Spock smooths the fabric of her skirt out. It's flawless, but he recognizes the need for control. "I have known true offense, Captain," she says, carefully formal. "Respecting the identity I have chosen for myself is nowhere near that which I usually face."

"Two worlds and they both look at you and see an alien," he sighs.

She nods. "Yes, both."

He lifts his head, looking at the opaque glass before them. "Sometime, when you're feeling up to it, maybe you'll feel comfortable telling me about it?"

She looks past him, out the window at the passing scenery. "Perhaps," she says. "It is not something you should hear, I think."

"Want to? No," he says. "The idea of someone hurting a person I care about isn't something I want to face, but I don't have the right to ignore it. We've ignored too much lately. We've stuck our heads in the sand and settled. We've let ourselves off the hook, and look where it's gotten us. The Federation's stalled out and caught up in pretending it's all hunky dory. This might be the twenty-third century and we might have managed to grow the hell up and face our dark side, but that doesn't mean it didn't do some growing of its own. It's gotten sneakier, more insidious, but it's still there." And focused on people with pointed ears. Vulcan or Romulan, for some it didn't much matter at all. "I'm sorry, Spock."

She shifts her gaze back to him. "I do not understand. You bear no personal responsibility for the words and actions of others."

"Maybe, maybe not. How many times has my obliviousness contributed to it?" She starts to answer and he grins. "That was rhetorical, Spock."

"Yes, but the question does bear answering," she says, cutting in before he can continue. "When I was a child, there were those who spoke to me in the manner to which we refer. I was accused of being not truly Vulcan, of being a traitor," her chin lifts and he can see the effort to control her emotions as she adds, "They spoke of my mother in terms no Vulcan should ever give voice. They were repeating the words of their parents, of course, but even so. Their parents were no more responsible for their repetition of the words, than they were responsible for their parents using them in the first place. Responsibility lies in the choice, not the act."

Chris is tempted to argue the point. Debating with Spock is a familiar, favorite activity of his, but not on this subject. Never about this.

"Well," he says, smiling. "I chose not to check out." A disturbing thought occurs to him and he faces her full on. "And if this ever happens on the ship, you'll tell me."

Before he can blink, her posture has stiffened into her shipboard persona. "Of course, Captain."

"It's not an order, Spock," he says, quiet. "It's a request. I'm just not good at making them. We want to see more Vulcans integrated into the Fleet and we can't do that so long as bullshit like this is lurking in the wings."

"You cannot legislate morality, Chris."

"No, but you can legislate rights," he says. "Sentient beings have the right to be treated equally. They have the right to live their lives and to live their lives the way they choose. No one has the right to shame them or mistreat them and they sure as hell aren't going to get the luxury of it when they're serving on my ship."

-

It's late afternoon when they emerge into the Vulcan heat. It's a duller flush now, less violent than earlier, but he shudders with the embrace of it. "Tell me it gets easier," he says, turning to help her out of the car.

"It does not," Spock replies. "Not for some time. Mother required a cool-suit for several months after relocating here with my father. She gradually acclimated, but the process was carefully monitored." She doesn't look at him as she fixes her dress, getting everything put back to rights before their grand entrance. "I do not believe we have sufficient time for such a procedure."

He grins. "Well, no, but if I ever plan on moving here, feel free to dream one up."

She straightens. "I await your word." It's so quietly said that, for a second, he actually thinks about what that would be like. About what it would be like to be in the same shoes as her mother once was. To walk away from the world of his birth to spend the rest of his life beneath a sun that tries to burn the skin off his bones when the planet beneath him isn't trying to bake him from the ground up.

Spock turns toward the fortress and its entrance, head held high, and the fading sun gleams against the jewels threaded into her hair.

It sounds like paradise to him.

"Pelasht." She turns to look at him. "Our ancestors used it as a base from which to launch attacks upon their rivals."

"And now?"

"Now it is used alternately by the Science Academy for debates and the local municipal government for a variety of purposes. The debates on Vulcan's entrance into the Federation were held here."

He joins her. "I wasn't aware there were debates. From my understanding -- "

"That we would support you was never in doubt," Spock says. "However, we wished to be clear on the matter. We are Vulcans."

 

-

T'Pau.

All Vulcan in one fierce, forbidding package. She makes a quiet entrance, her entourage keeping close behind her, but not a person in the hall misses it. They can't. This is the woman who turned down the Federation Council for reasons still a mystery to everyone but herself. That act alone would make her legend, but her name and her fingerprints can be found throughout Federation history.

The fates of worlds have hung on her word. Will again.

Watching her, Chris gets the sense that maybe, just maybe, he's catching a glimpse of Spock's future. This is the role she's spent her life being groomed for.

It's been decades since T'Pau held public office, but you'd never tell. Not from the way the reception's guests defer to her. This is _her_ show and the realization puts a new spin on things considerably.

A true understanding of the byzantine workings of Vulcan's clans and families still eludes him. He looks to Spock, thinking to ask about the nature of her relation to T'Pau and finds a stranger in her place.

Maybe it's his perception shaded by T'Pau's presence, but Spock seems different. Cold. Alien in a way she's never been. The warm breeze of the Vulcan evening tickles his collar, but he shivers nonetheless. "Spock?"

She turns her head. "Yes?" She gets a glimpse of his expression. Whatever change had come over her vanishes in the next instant. "My apologies, I -- " Her gaze strays back to T'Pau and the shadow descends again.

Chris chose Starfleet. Neither of his parents served. They'd both opted for planet-bound careers that kept them near their childhood homes. The ranch he inherited from them is the culmination of their work, his father's designs and his mother's terraforming work greening the hills around it. Starfleet had always been his dream, his world, and his choice most of all.

He can't imagine being born into a life like Spock's, all the major signposts laid out. He tries to picture his parents grooming him with a childhood of lessons. Diplomacy, art, defense, and a thousand and one other subjects to build him toward the ascension of some kind of throne.

For Spock it's a title; the throne is figurative, but the end is the same. In the beginning, he'd thought her vast knowledge found its genesis in the innate Vulcan curiosity. It had taken some time and a few prods from Number One before he'd truly began to comprehend the rigours of Spock's upbringing. Whatever lessons the average Vulcan child learned, she'd had those and legions more waiting after them.

Spock looks at him. The act seems as much decision as movement. A conscious rejection of T'Pau's approach in favor of a friendly face. He doesn't think she would term it like that, but that's what she has him for.

The last time she rejected Vulcan and its trappings, she'd done it alone and doesn't that put a spin on Sarek's reaction.

"Feel like saying hello?" he asks. She opens her mouth and he grins. "Bad choice of words, milady," he says, teasing. "You know what I meant."

"I do at that," she says. "I also believe you did it deliberately. You are not the inept simpleton you pretend to be, Christopher."

God, he loves it when she says his name. He shakes himself from the thought and focuses on her again. "It's not easy to be here, is it?"

"The Vulcan way is not interested in ease," she says. It's a careful recitation, but it's familiar on her lips. She's said it before, she's said it thousands of times, and he thinks the words are smooth and worn within the walls of her mind. Worn smooth by the fluidity of her thoughts until they're as much mantra and facing her, the future she presents, they'll be the same for him too.

This isn't going to be easy.

"The Vulcan way," he nods. "And you're supposed to be the very embodiment of it, correct?"

That shadow descends on her face again. Spock doesn't turn to look at T'Pau, but she doesn't need to. "In a manner of speaking."

When Chris was a child, he'd read every story on Starfleet he could find. He'd spent night after night plowing his way through mission reports and captain's logs and every other document that Starfleet cared to declassify. He'd worked his way through the entire Enterprise mission, engrossed in every word Jonathan Archer had written, until the investigation of the Earth embassy bombing brought him up cold.

It was almost completely blank. Oh, it'd had the basics, but those basics had created more questions than they'd answered. The report had cited T'Pau as a possible suspect, along with a Vulcan political movement, only to dismiss her in the next paragraph with the insistence she'd never even been involved. The whole thing had been a tangle of disinformation and half-truths, nothing like the rest of Archer's reports and logs.

He breathes deep. "I'm sure Number One is standing by," he says. "One call and a shipboard emergency calls us home."

The word 'home' hits its mark. He sees the look in her eyes, longing, but she shakes her head. A dark strand of green gems woven into the braiding moves with the motion, drawing his eye up to the elaborate hair. It's nothing like her on-duty preference and the weight must be painful.

"I cannot leave," she says. "It would embarrass my family."

Somehow, he doesn't think she's talking about her parents. "All right, then," he says. "We stay."

"You may leave, Captain," she says, withdrawing. "No one would fault you for an attention to duty."

"I'm not going anywhere, Spock," he says. "Where I come from, you dance with the one that brought you."

"On Vulcan, we do not dance at all."

"Shame," he says. "I think you'd be amazing at it."

"I have learned," she says. "My mother insisted."

"Your mother is a wise woman, Spock."

They both tense with T'Pau's interjection. She's behind them both, to the side, her slight frame easily overlooked in the crowd.

Chris turns his head and finds her staring at him. T'Pau's eyes are sharp and, up close, penetrating. He can see where the stories started. Vulcans are touch-telepaths, but caught in T'Pau's gaze he has a hard time believing them so limited. "Captain Pike," she says, his name and rank rendered unfamiliar by the heavy accent of her voice.

She didn't have that accent in the vids he's viewed. Years of speaking Vulcan dialects instead of Standard, shaping her voice into that of a matriarch. Maybe she does it purely for effect, but if she does, it's working.

"Lady," he returns. Spock's lessons come back. He doesn't bow, tip his head, or anything of that nature. His whole body goes into telegraphing his deference, but it's subtle and the effort is taxing in the Vulcan heat.

It's worth it. T'Pau looks at Spock and, he thinks, there's approval in her eyes. The words that come from her lips next are Vulcan, but a dialect he's unfamiliar with. It's old. Possibly Ancient High Vulcan itself.

Spock's reply is smooth and without hesitation. He watches the conversation play out, the women all but forgetting he's there. If Spock is uncomfortable, she doesn't show it. T'Pau is shorter than her, considerably so, but her posture remains flawless. It's not quite a conversation between equals, but Spock shows less deference than anyone else he's seen T'Pau speak to in that time.

Watching the conversation is worth the price of being left out of it. So much so that when T'Pau leaves them as abruptly as she approached, he's left blinking with shock.

"What precisely did I just miss?" he asks after a moment.

"Nothing, Captain," Spock says, just a touch too innocent. "Nothing worth your attention." She gestures. "We should continue. There are a number of people who doubtless wish to speak with us."

"Doubtless," he agrees. Not believing a word of it, he doesn't quite make much of an effort to hide it. "Places to go, people to see I take it?"

She takes a step, then looks at him. "Captain, I believe you are making a mockery of me."

"No," he says, smiling. "I am, however, teasing you just a little. I promise you wear it better than I would."

"That remains to be seen," she says, and moves deeper into the room.

-

They're in her element now, not his. For all her distaste for politics and diplomacy, Spock navigates the circus surrounding them both with apparent ease.

He starts to say 'you were born to do this' but changes his mind. He's put his foot in his mouth enough for one day. "Commander Spock, I can think of a couple Federation diplomats who could stand to take notes on your technique."

She turns her head, looking at him. "My technique?"

He nods. A waiter stops before them with a tray of glasses. Not alcohol, but something sweet. He takes a glass for Spock and presents her with it before taking one for himself. "Yes, your technique. It's not an exaggeration to say you're not exactly loving this."

"It is not," she agrees.

"And yet, you'd never know by your demeanor," he explains. "I can think of a few ambassadors I've known who couldn't do that if their lives depended on it. That's a rare skill and don't try and tell me it's a Vulcan thing. I know better."

"Perhaps," she allows, "but I would vastly prefer to be elsewhere at this time."

He suppresses a grin, acknowledging the First Minister with a nod. One she returns much to his surprise, before her gaze slides to Spock. He watches with naked curiosity as her expression changes and much becomes clear.

"Showdown at the OK Corral," he says under his breath.

"In effect," Spock says with, he thinks, some amusement. She finally acknowledges the Minister with a cool, but polite nod. It's a bit of a mental gymnastics; translating the Vulcans' myriad and ornate language into something slightly comprehensible.

The interplay between Spock and the Minister, easily a woman one hundred and twenty years Spock's senior, is a bit like translating 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' into Klingon. He gets the gist of it, but at the end of the day, there's still no word for jolly.

"They really don't know what to do with you, do they?"

Spock shakes her head. "No. However, to be fair, neither do you."

He knows what she means, but his imagination has a fine time with those words anyway. "Oh, believe me, I might have a few ideas."

The look he gets to _that_ can only be described as indulgent. "Vulcan is an insular culture with a tendency toward isolationism," she says, explaining. "It is contrary to Surak's teachings, but sometimes, we do not listen so well."

"No kidding." He tries his best to look innocent just as soon as he realizes he said that _out loud_.

Spock's answer is another one of those indulgent looks. He kind of likes it. Not enough to be an idiot again, but he really does kind of like it.

"We are content to stay amidst our own," she continues, "but I present a challenge to such thinking. Not only has Surak taught us that we should embrace all, now his family line forever will reflect his words." She looks slightly chagrined. "At the risk of sounding terribly self-important, I was born to be the living embodiment of his teachings."

Chris shoots a look over his shoulder at T'Pau. "By design?"

"I have wondered," Spock says. "T'Pau was behind Sarek's assignment to Earth. I would not put such thinking past her."

He considers it and hates T'Pau a little. He can see it too. The woman is a political operator. Her fingerprints can be found all over the Federation, subtle and elegant in her machinations. Arranging a marriage between Sarek and a human woman, however indirect her influence on the matter, for the end goal of a half-human child sounds like her. Sounds a _lot_ like her.

"That's a lot to put on a little girl," he says, slow and careful.

Spock shifts, the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. He mentally reworks that into, _It's T'Pau's galaxy, the rest of us just live in it._ Sounds a little closer to the truth and maybe he's not being fair, but Spock's not asking him to be fair. She's looking at him and, maybe, hoping that he isn't. "I have managed," is what she says aloud.

"Quite well," he agrees. "Now, you did say something about wishing to be elsewhere."

"I had acknowledged such," she says.

"Any suggestions?"

Spock gives it thought—of course she does—before answering, "You have spoken often of your home. Mojave. I believe I would enjoy seeing it."

Vulcans are sneaky, sneaky bastards. Sneaky evil bastards. Chris looks at her, quite convinced of this, and tries to marshal his thoughts into something coherent. Like, say, an invitation.

"You'd like it," he says, instead. "Used to be nothing but desert. These days -- "

"A fair degree of farmland has been terraformed into its place," Spock nods. "I have read your mother's work on the subject for a number of projects."

His eyebrows rose. "You have?"

She nods. "Yes, much. She is a leading authority in the field. I have found her articles to be most instructional."

He thinks about telling his mother that and grins. She's retired, living quietly on Alpha Centauri with his stepmother. He lets himself have a moment to picture introducing them to Spock. A second later, his father and, as much as he loves Dory and what she's been to his mom, he misses him so much that it's almost a physical ache.

"Are you all right, Christopher?" Spock asks, taking a step closer. "Your expression -- "

"Just had a thought." He's smiling for her, albeit sadly, before he can catch himself. "Wishing for the impossible."

"Be careful, Captain, around here, if you wish for the impossible, someone just might try and give it to you."

Spock looks surprised. "Mother."

 _Mother_.

Oh god.

Breathing deep, Chris turns around. Spock would say it isn't logical to be afraid of a simple introduction, but he is. This is _Amanda Grayson_. The woman who took on two planets, won, and gave birth to the woman at his side in the process.

He's scared out of his damn mind.

Amanda Grayson is a slight woman, beautiful like her daughter. It's easy to see the resemblance between them. Save the dark eyes and certain other features that are an inheritance from her father, Spock is an echo of her mother.

Looking at her, Chris can see how a Vulcan could fall in love. At the sight of her daughter, Amanda smiles. Not even the Tin Man himself could resist a smile like that. She moves forward to close the distance between her, abandoning the small clutch of people she'd been talking with, with hands outstretched. "Spock, you're actually here!"

Without hesitation and barehanded, Spock catches hold of her mother's hands. If anyone is watching, she pays them no heed as her mother draws her closer. "Of course, Mother. My presence was requested. I could not refuse an official invitation."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Amanda says. She sounds unrepentantly smug about that fact and, god, he'd like to hear the story behind it. He makes mental note to ask her later as he watches her pull back to take in the length of her. "You look _wonderful_ , Spock. You're eating well, I trust?"

"Yes, Mother," Spock says with a dutiful nod. "I have followed your instructions precisely. You may contact Dr. Boyce or Number One aboard the Yorktown if you wish independent verification."

Amanda laughs. In the stone-floored hall, the sound echoes and draws more than a few eyes. Still, neither woman pays them any apparent mind, and Chris marvels at the difference in Spock. She's staring at her mother like a child at a Christmas display, or at least the Vulcan equivalent thereof. "I think I can take your word for it, Spock." She squeezes Spock's hands once more and then shifts her attention to Chris. "Captain Pike." Her gaze remains friendly, if distant. He's being scrutinized, judged, and he's never been this nervous.

He's faced down admirals, presidents, kings and queens, and not a one of them has ever made him this unsettled with just look.

Of course, none of them have ever been Spock's mother either.

"Ma'am," he says, nodding. "It's good to see you again." He looks at Spock for a moment. She looks back, steady and unwavering, but with maybe just a hint of apprehension. She's nervous too. "You seem quite well."

Which is an understatement. Amanda is beautiful.

-

Beaming back to the ship is a relief. He lets out a breath as soon as the sweet, temperature-controlled air of the Yorktown surrounds his overheated form. "Oh, god that is beautiful."

Spock steps down off the transporter pad, still clad in the gown of earlier. Here, with the wide eyes of the techs on her, an edge of discontent creeps into her manner as she looks back at him. "I do not believe, Captain, that I share your perception."

"No, you must be freezing," he agrees. "Go. We'll further this little discussion in the morning."

She nods once and makes for the door at double-speed.

He manages to wait until she's gone, but only just. The door's just slid shut behind her before he's rounding on the transporter technicians. "Something you'd like to share with the class, gentlemen?"

Both shake their heads.

"Good, because if I catch you staring at Commander Spock like that again, there are going to be words and possibly a few classes on cultural sensitivity." Not to mention some goddamn common sense, but he doesn't say that part. He's already skating just a little too close to the line for his own comfort and Number One is going to have his head for this.

That is, if Spock doesn't get him first. He thinks, in that case, the Vulcan dedication to pacifism might save him, but if it does, it'll be a close thing. A very, very close thing.

"Understood?" he says, in a calmer tone because, yes, there are regulations about these sorts of things. One does not go around ogling one's superior officer, no matter how stunning she happens to be at that or any other time.

"Yessir," they both chorus, looking a little terrified.

He forces himself to nod, official and absolutely not anywhere approaching jealous before leaving the room at double-speed himself. He doesn't care that Phil's absolutely and totally dead to the world and that it's three hours until he's due in Sickbay.

He's damn well getting up for this.

-

Bleary eyed and muttering about goddamn captains and their goddamn stupid crushes, Phil rolls out of bed and gets the good whisky. He might be a crusty old man, but he's a crusty old man with a conscience where his fellow officers are concerned.

His friends, however, get glared at across the table.

"I'll apologize later," Chris promises.

"You'll apologize now, and you'll be sincere and quite contrite about it," Phil shoots back. He splashes whisky into both glasses and then downs one. "All right, out with your latest tale of woe about how you're in love with your science officer and, being a Vulcan, she's completely and totally oblivious to it. You can throw in a chapter or two about dying old and alone with naught but your horse for company while you're at it."

"I'd say you're a surly drunk," Chris says, "but you're sober."

"I'm also asleep. I'm just having a godawful bad dream about it."

"All right," Chris says, "then you're a surly sleeper."

Phil half-smiles, reaching for the bottle again. "I'm a surly everything, it's why you like me." This time, he swirls the amber liquid around the bottom of the glass. "So, you spent the day with our favourite Vulcan lady, that must have been an experience."

"Was it ever," Chris sighs. He swallows his own glassful and holds out for another.

"Well, now, you can't just leave it at that," Phil says, refilling the glass. "Share with Uncle Phil."

With a chuckle, Chris does. He starts with that first moment, materializing on Vulcan, and goes right through to the reception and the aftermath. When they'd emerged into the bitter cold of the Vulcan night, Spock pressing closer and him almost afraid to draw a breath.

When he gets to the transporter room and the technicians, Phil scowls and nods. "So, that's it then."

"That's it then," Chris agrees. He slumps into his chair, kicking one booted foot against the wall. "Pathetic, right?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely." Phil nods. "The Captain's finally gone and fallen in love, just with a Vulcan."

"Now you're laughing at me," Chris says, annoyed.

"You wake me up at an ungodly hour of the night," Phil says, "you get laughed at and you get laughed at quite a lot. You know full well what my opinion is, Chris. You're just too damn afraid to take that chance and, frankly, I think it's patently ridiculous," Phil puts his own glass on the table. "You should just tell her."

"Right," he says.

Phil's eyebrows rise, amusement in those sharp blue eyes. "Oh yes, because no Vulcan woman has ever appreciated forthright honesty. You walk up to her, you buy her a drink, and you invite her to dinner. Vulcan has some very lovely restaurants. I'm sure, if you asked, your yeoman could produce an extensive list of them."

He pictures himself squiring Spock around town. Her hometown. "What a picture we'd make."

"Vulcans respect experience," Phil says, lightly and with a smile. "If she has to choose an outworlder --"

Chris snorts. "Right, a human starship captain. Hell of a choice for the future voice of all Vulcan." He's still coming to terms with that. On her own, she's a force to be reckoned with. With the weight of her name and her family behind her – he closes his eyes. "She's my _science officer_ , Phil."

"And what's that got to do with anything, hmm?" Phil asks. With an expression of distaste, he reaches for the bottle between them. "She's probably the best science officer in the entire Starfleet. Had her pick of assignments as I recall. You and Number One were pretty damn pleased with yourselves when she picked this ship." He refills Chris's glass. "When she picked _you_."

And he had been, still _is_. She and Number One regularly leave the rest of the bridge behind with discussions that, for them, are casual conversation. For everyone else, they're almost incomprehensible. Her intellect, even for a Vulcan, is staggering and he's unbelievably proud she chose his ship.

"She didn't pick me, Phil," Chris says, annoyed. "She picked the mission. We're headed -- "

"In search of new life, new civilizations," he waves a hand. "I read the same recruitment poster you did, Chris, but that's not what brought Spock onto this ship. Starfleet has dozens of ships and dozens of exploration missions."

Chris huffs a laugh. It's skeptical, and a little bitter, and they've been over this ground before. "Does it? Face it, Phil, since Kelvin, the only thing we've been exploring is new and better ways to blow the Romulan Empire off the quadrant. We haven't been explorers for a long time."

"On most ships, maybe," Phil says, "but yours?" He grins. "Like it or not, Chris, a big part of Spock's presence on this ship is you. She chose the Yorktown because you command it."

"And you know this how?" Chris asks.

"Easy," Phil shrugs. "I asked her."

"You _asked_ her?" Chris echoes, shocked. "And just what else did you ask her while you were at it, huh?"

"Oh everything," Phil demurs. "What she thinks of you, feels about you, whether we should have the wedding in May or June and do Vulcans have any particular taboos about that sort of thing." He snorts. "It was a conversation, Chris. Rest assured I betrayed not a single confidence, although I should have. Would've gotten all the silliness out of the way and let you both get down to business." He jabs a finger in Chris's direction. "Tell her, Chris. She might be a Vulcan, but she's a woman all the same, and I've a feeling what her answer will be."

"Oh do you, now?" Chris asks. "Feel like letting me in on it, Doctor?"

"Nope," Phil gets up. "For once, Captain, you've got to handle this one yourself."

-

The late morning duty shift sees Number One and Spock both on the bridge. Behind them, on the viewscreen, Vulcan hangs in space. Standing just outside the turbolift doors, holding them open, Chris looks with eyes still grainy from lack of sleep.

Spock turns her head at his entrance, familiar in her uniform. "Captain."

"Commander," he nods and moves down to stand at Number One's side. "Commander _s_."

She looks up at him, a faint smile on her lips. "Good morning, Captain. Enjoy the festivities yesterday?"

"High summer on Vulcan," Chris feigns a shudder. "Ask Commander Spock how it went."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "The heat was most impressive, even for our summers." She turns around, taking a PADD from a yeoman and casting a critical eye at it. "As for the reception, it was quite uniform."

"Uniform?" Number One echoes.

"Like one of a thousand others," Chris agrees. "Good drinks, great dinner, awkward conversations." He turns around to take his seat. "Altogether quite an ordinary evening." If you ignored the part where he'd spent it at Spock's side.

Spock nods, "Yes, precisely, Captain."

She turns back to her work and he finds himself besieged by the morning's wave of reports. The same every morning. The commanders of the Gamma and Delta shifts providing every obscure detail of any importance for the Captain's review. Anything that might be worth the Alpha shift's attention and follow up.

He skims them all with a half-interested eye. Vulcan's system has been documented by a dozen different ships, not including their own scientific expeditions throughout. There's nothing of any particular worth. He signs off on them and passes them back a few moments later.

When he looks up, he finds himself being watched. Spock is regarding him—and that's the only way he can describe it—with a contemplative expression. He can't work out what she's thinking, sometimes he feels like he can, but it's a look he's never seen before.

Apparently realizing that she's been caught, Spock looks away and back to her work. In system, patrolling, there's not much to be done so he's not surprised when she slides to her knees and opens up the panel.

He grins and gets up. "Tell me, Commander, if I were to bring the ship's original designers on board, what would they make of that panel of yours?"

On her knees, Spock lays the panel aside. "They would find it most expertly arranged, Captain." The answer is, he thinks, a little playful. "Would you like to see?"

"I've taken a peek before," he says. And had no idea what he was looking at. His understanding of engineering is rudimentary at best. Starfleet's comprehensive classes providing the basics and not much more. "It looked," he hesitates, trying to find the right word, then grins. "It looked _complicated_."

She nods. Amused, maybe. She looks in at the panel. "You seem tired, Captain."

"Late night," he says. "Partying with my science officer. Had a hell of a time."

"Did you?"

"Absolutely." He means it. "Better, I think, than you had."

Spock's hands slow at their work. "It was not a difficult experience, Captain." She says his title, but he can hear his name underneath. "Not for your part of it."

"It's never an easy thing," he says, "going home."

"No," she agrees. "It is not."

Chris leans in, making a show of taking a greater look at the panel. Phil's words echo in his ear as he asks, nervous, "Care to take a meal with me, Commander?"

She looks at him, sideways like she's being as careful as he is. "Dinner?"

"Preferably." He'd rather not have this conversation and go back to duty. However it turns out.

Which sounds like a brilliant plan in the instant he first conceives it. It really does. It sounds like a not half-plan by lunch, when he picks at a salad and listens to Number One, Phil, and Lieutenant Commander Barry hashing through the latest crop of transfers from the Defiant and Excelsior. Somewhere around mid-afternoon, when he's watching Number One take the Yorktown through a series of near acrobatic maneuvers through the constant stream of traffic in the space around Vulcan, he thinks that he's a goddamn idiot.

For her part, Spock is as serene as ever, the few times that he sees her. For quite logical reasons, there's little of scientific interest in the space of her home system that she hasn't already studied. Somewhere around lunch, she disappears below decks to any number of scientific experiments that she's been putting off during the Yorktown's exploration-patrol duties.

The bridge science station goes down about halfway through the afternoon, right around the time he's cursing his lack of foresight, and she appears in a pair of coveralls. There's a smudge of something on her nose and her hair's as closed to dishevelled as he's ever seen it and, lord help him, she's the cutest thing that he's ever seen.

"I promise," he says, as soon as she emerges from the turbolift, "I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even _look_ at it." Her station's peculiarities aside, Chris thinks that sometimes his ship doesn't like him much. Anything he so much as touches tends to overreact in fairly alarming fashion.

She looks at him in a manner that's definitely considering, as if she can't quite be sure he's telling the truth or not. He's about to protest, when she glances in Number One's direction for confirmation.

It occurs to him that, should the impossible happen and he gets involved with Spock, two of the most important women in his life are already close friends. Reassuring and truly alarming all in the one instance.

"Very well," she says, and drops to her knees without ceremony. A wriggle or two later, she's head and shoulders inside the panel, alternately bickering—though she'll deny it to the last—with Cait and asking for certain tools. The whole thing has the air of an operation until, finally, the panel glows with life once more and she's sliding out.

He watches the whole thing from beginning to end, his ill-temper lessening with each passing second and recognizes the import of that. Somewhere along the line, her mere presence became an emotional anchor. Spock's presence has an effect. Arousing, comforting, whichever and whatever term one might think to apply, it all works.

She looks at him and he looks back.

A step or two closes the distance from the chair to her side. "About that dinner -- "

Spock, gracious as ever, inclines her head. "Five minutes?"

"And counting," he agrees.

-

She's on time, right to the second. He's not. Despite end of shift, it takes him several minutes to finish up with Number One before hotfooting it to the turbolift and, from there, his quarters.

He's still hauling a shirt over his head, letting the replicator do its thing, when the door chimes.

"We really have to work on your sense of timing," he says, opening the door and forgetting how to breathe.

She's in off-duty attire as well. A thick woollen skirt and a simple sweater should not be as attractive as it is, but on her, he's hooked. The material looks soft, hugging to her body, and warm.

"Practical, but very -- " he pauses. "It wouldn't be out of line for me -- " he waves a hand at her clothing.

Spock considers it, and him, with an amusement that's visible. "Considering the circumstances in which we currently find ourselves, Christopher, no it would not be out of line to compliment my appearance. Indeed, by Earth's traditions, I believe it would be quite rude."

"And then some," he agrees, tugging his own shirt into place. "It wouldn't get me a second date, that's for sure."

"A date?" Spock echoes. She looks so confused that, for a second, his heart seizes up and it's alarm that cuts off his breath this time. Except, she doesn't hold to the look for long and that slight glint of mischief slips into her gaze again. "Apologies. It was improper of me."

"To make a joke?" Chris says, grinning despite the continued racing of his heart. "Not in the least. I appreciate the effort and," he laughs, "the humor. You had me for a second there."

"Yes, I believe that I did," Spock says, taking a seat. "It was a calculated choice."

"Was it now?" he asks. "Mind if I ask to what end?"

"We have some difficulty on the matter of communication," she says, looking up at him. "I have observed in the past humans have some difficulty comprehending Vulcan conversation."

"As a people, you do seem to have a small problem with obtuse language." A trip to the replicator nets him two mugs of coffee. Not really his choice of drink, but in deference to the cool temperature of his quarters, he thinks Spock might appreciate it. "Or, at least, it's always seemed so to me."

Spock takes the mug with murmured thanks. "I cannot dispute the remark," she agrees. "Which is my chief reasoning for the joke, ill-considered as it was. It seemed a logical method to opening channels on this particular issue."

"The issue being us? Or the possibility thereof?"

"Yes."

"Well, there are definitely worse ways to handle it so, I'm not complaining."

"Yes, I believe there are," Spock affirms. She sips her coffee and then looks at him. "The logical place to begin is to address your fears relating to fraternization."

"My fears—" he coughs around a mouthful of coffee. "I—what?"

Spock's gaze stays steady on his as he stumbles and stammers. "You have felt an attraction to me for some time, yes? As you have not acted on it previously, logically there must have been concerns causing you to hesitate. That one of them might be concerns relating to fraternization seems obvious."

"We shouldn't -- " he says. "I'm -- "

Everyone knows Vulcans are polite. Everyone knows they cling to courtesy and ritual with the kind of intensity that verges on near-obsession. Vulcans wrap emotion and instinct up in a dozen different layers of tradition until it's a misshapen suggestion of truth. It's common knowledge. It's also common knowledge to anyone who actually knows a Vulcan that this habit is constantly balanced and counterbalanced by the Vulcan propensity for honesty.

Forthright honesty.

"Right," he says, nodding. "That is a concern. I'm the captain, and captains are a whole different ballgame. There's a good chance that, some day, I may have to order you into a situation that means certain death. If we're involved -- "

"Christopher," Spock says, surprisingly severe, and he realizes she's _annoyed_ , "The very reason that Starfleet does not attempt to regulate the relationships of its members is the simple fact that regulating conduct cannot and will not have any particular effect upon the emotions behind it. One need not invoke romance or sexuality for a relationship to extend beyond the barriers of appropriate behavior. Human literature is littered with examples of such friendships and, yet, no military organization in your history attempted to outlaw _that_."

He grins. "I know. I just wanted to get that out there. The truth is, there are other concerns you haven't mentioned yet." He's long ago come to terms with the idea of ordering someone to their death. It's never going to be easy, but the chances exist and whether it's Spock, Number One, hell, any of his crew, if he has to, he will.

She colours. It's subtle, but her skin greens just a little and, god, he made a Vulcan _blush_. He hides the smug grin, but it's not easily done. Seriously, a _Vulcan_ and not just any Vulcan. He made _Spock_ blush. It's kind of amazing.

"You may cease your self-congratulation, Christopher," she says, still severe. Something that he in no way finds attractive, at all. "It is an autonomic reflex over which I must exert conscious control to suppress and, at the moment, I do not care to."

That's a gift in and of itself and he knows it. No one sees a Vulcan unguarded. "Thank you," he says, serious for a moment.

She almost smiles. He doesn't know how he sees it, her facial muscles make no discernible movements, but he does. For the briefest of moments, there's a chance of a smile and it's _his_.

There might be a day he stops celebrating moments like these, but it's a long way off. (Possibly a week after the heat death of the universe, but he doesn't want to be hasty about it either.)

It occurs to Chris that he is, point of fact, _courting_ a Vulcan, and he can't stop the grin.

Spock doesn't say anything to that. She does, however, lean forward. "And the concern you wished to express?" She looks at him, narrowing her eyes in consideration. "Perhaps it might be on the matter of our ages?"

"Perhaps," he says. "You're a lot younger than me, Spock."

She shifts. It's the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. At least, he thinks that it is. "Irrelevant," she says. It's a quick, firm dismissal, but it's a genuine one. She means it. This hasn't even occurred to her and that surprises him. "You are forgetting, Christopher, my genetic structure favors my Vulcan ancestors." She waits a beat, letting him get it. "In all matters of my biological make up."

"Like, say, how the Vulcan lifespan puts the human one to shame?"

Spock nods. "By Vulcan standards, you are a child."

"And so are you," he says.

"Yes." Her eyes warm. Affection. Maybe desire. His own cheeks heat and he's the one squirming. "Therefore we are permitted to be irrepressible together. I assure you, if there are any objections to our pursuit of a relationship, your age is of no concern. It would be no less a factor were we age-mates."

It's reassuring, to a degree, but that reassurance is lost in the suggestion of her comments. "There will be objections, however?"

"No relationship with an outworlder is without its controversy," Spock says. He has the feeling she's picking her words carefully. More than she usually does. "Whether they are from Betazed, Earth, or," that not-quite-smile again, "Andoria."

Now there's a combination. He tries to picture it, but between the antennae and the ears, his brain flat out refuses to cooperate.

"But especially Earth?" he asks.

"Especially me," she says. "While my father's concern is problematic, it is not without merit. My mother is viewed as a disadvantage by some on Vulcan. For me to embrace a man of her world as opposed to one of my own could be misconstrued."

"As you rejecting Vulcan and everything to do with it?" It's not like he hasn't heard of the idea before. Earth isn't any better at these things than Vulcan. He's been reading up on the reaction to the marriage of Spock's parents, particularly the media's focus on Amanda.

Thinking about some of them now makes his blood boil with fury.

It's instinct to reach for her hand. He stops himself at the last minute, settling his fingertips on the soft material draped over her knees. It's heavier than the dress she'd worn on Vulcan and he misses that. He's never seen her wear light fabrics before. On the ship, her off duty clothing tends toward heavy skirts, tights, and a sleek array of cold-weather sweaters. No wonder most Vulcans keep to their own ships. At least there, they get to control the thermostat.

"Share your thoughts?" Spock asks.

Chris rubs the fabric under his fingers. She rewards him with a heavy-lidded look that sets his heart to racing. "Just thinking about the Vulcan reputation toward prudishness." He grins. "You guys aren't buttoned up out of shame. You're _freezing_."

She doesn't laugh, but he hears it just the same. "Correct."

"Well, you wear it well," he says and smiles.

She surprises him, covering his hand with hers. "I do not choose you for fear or dislike of my homeworld. For all the failings of my people, I am not ashamed of being Vulcan - " Or Human. She doesn't say it, but he hears it. He has a feeling he'll be learning to listen to the silences a lot from here on out. "If I were, I would not shame you by bringing you into it."

"I know," he says. "At least, I think I do." It's hard, parsing out some of this, but practice and all that, right? "If I don't, I will."

She settles back, mollified. "The attempt is all that I ask."

-

"I feel completely ridiculous saying this," he says, "but I want to see Vulcan the way you see it."

It occurs to him as soon as he says it, just how that sounds. Vulcan as she remembers it shames and looks down on the humanity threaded throughout her DNA. Her Vulcan involves childhood bullies and political machinations as alien to him as a Benzite respirator.

Spock must have noticed. He can't see how she might have missed it. Her command of Standard is too strong and her attention to detail too exacting to possibly let such a mistake slide unnoticed.

If she does, though, she doesn't acknowledge it. Her face betrays no sign of noticing any other intent.

Instead, she looks at him with that little half-suggestion of a smile. It's an odd little look that she keeps in reserve for the moments her shipmates make complete idiots of themselves.

"What?" he asks, confused. "What did I say? Do you think there'll be a problem with the crew taking shore leave while we're here?"

"I do not believe so," she says, her voice slow.

"Then what?" he asks. "What's the matter?"

Spock's not-smile grows stronger. "Chris, in the whole of Federation history, no Starfleet crew has ever requested leave on Vulcan."

"Well then," he says, soothing himself by laying hands on her shoulders, "this crew is going to be the first."

She doesn't do anything so obvious as look at his hands. Her gaze doesn't stray from his, but he still becomes aware of the shift in their positions nonetheless. The proximity of their bodies.

Chris swallows hard. "I should -- "

"Not do what you are thinking," Spock says. She brings her own hands up to rest on his, holding them there. The way she's looking at him changes, amusement creeping into her demeanor. "You are allowed to touch me."

He laughs, nervous. "I _know_ , in theory, but I also know Vulcans aren't big on physical contact." For quite logical, pardon the word appropriation, reasons. "I don't want to -- "

Her lips press against his, and she leans into him. It isn't a brief thing, either, this meeting of their mouths. Even as his head swims with the surprise of it, Chris starts to relax into the kiss. Nature and instinct take over, his hands slipping free of hers to skim down her shoulders and arms, eventually letting go just long enough to wrap arms around her and bring her closer still.

When she finally does pull back, her face is almost that of a stranger's. He's never seen Spock like this, eyes soft and relaxed with satisfaction, and he thinks it could be almost a narcotic. He can't ever imagine having enough.

"If you are to spend the majority of our time together apologizing for imagined offences," she says, affectionate, "I should warn you, even Vulcan patience has its limits."

He chuckles. "Okay, okay, no more apologies. Just as long as you promise to do that again sometime."

"I will," she says, "that and much more."

"Careful, Commander," he warns, "you keep talking like that and we're not going to get much in the way of shore leave in." Which, in his books, isn't exactly a bad idea, but he did mean what he said. Means it now. He wants to see Vulcan through Vulcan eyes. Her eyes.

"I have no objections to that."

Chris closes his eyes and breathes deep. "What happened to Vulcan propriety?"

"It stays within carefully defined parameters," Spock replies. There's a certain smug serenity to the way she says that. "Parameters which do not apply in these situations."

"You're destroying all my carefully cultivated illusions about Vulcans you know," he says, grave in his teasing. At least, he tries to be, but with her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his shirt that's easier said than done.

"Yes," she says with that same serenity, "I know."

"What am I going to do with you?" he asks, meaning it. Looking at him the way she is, looking the way she does, this Spock is a stranger. A beautiful, beguiling, mysterious stranger. He wants to ask if this is what happens, if this is how it feels to see behind the walls each and every Vulcan lives behind. If this is how her mother feels, but he imagines that she doesn't really know.

That when they leave this room, walk out among the crew, no one will be able to tell that anything happened here but the everyday consultations between a captain and a department head.

There's something oddly thrilling about that.

"Yes," Spock says, "quite."

"You heard that?"

"Dimly," she replies. Her fingers don't withdraw, however, just lay flat against his uniform tunic. "Does it disturb you?"

"Touch telepathy?" He thinks before he answers anything further. Spock isn't the type of woman who appreciates pat answers, immediate reassurances, and he won't insult her by offering them. "I don't think so," he says. "It'll take some getting used to, but I don't think so."

"I cannot hear everything," Spock says. "The contact must be sustained for anything more than fragments of thoughts and responses."

"But if the contact is sustained?"

"I may hear more, but without a meld it is intermittent. The workings of the mind and thoughts are not so easily understood as some might think."

He indulges himself, brushing her bangs away from her forehead. She stills beneath the touch and her breathing quickens. "Oh, I think you're reading me pretty well."

She catches his fingers, bringing them to hers. "Perhaps."

He's seen the gesture before between spouses and other couples. He's never understood it until, for a second, there's a _reaction_. He feels her in a quick, burst of emotion and thought. A flash of him kissing her and fragments of more. It's enough to stop his breath.

"Wow."

She lowers her hand. "Quite so."

"Does that happen every time?"

"I have not had many circumstances in which I could practice, but I believe so," Spock nods.

He grins and wiggles his fingers. "Only one way to find out. One more for the road, Commander?"

-

Seeing Vulcan means a visit to the market place near Spock's home. It's an outdoor thing. On the surface, it seems impractical given the heat, but a second or two beneath the tarps reveals some kind of unseen temperature control. It's still hot to a point of nearly unbearable, but for the Vulcans it's comfortable enough.

"Impressive," he says, looking for the equipment responsible.

Spock looks to question him, but her mother does the job for her. "It is, isn't it? I asked Sarek about it once, why they just didn't move it inside." She leaves her attendants and walks toward them with a smile. "He asked me why should they? If they have the ability to regulate the temperature, then why should they break tradition? Vulcans are fiercely protective of their traditions, Captain Pike, no matter what the tradition."

"Mother," Spock takes a step toward her. Here in the public neither woman makes any further movement than that. It's a contrast to the party, but neither of them seems upset, he thinks he'd notice if Spock was, so it's not a problem. "You look well."

"As do you," Amanda smiles. "What brings you both planet-side? The summit -- "

"We are," Spock hesitates and then offers a minute shrug, "We are on leave."

The way she says it has Amanda's eyebrows raising. Her gaze then focuses in on Christopher and, lord help him, he'd rather be facing Klingons right now. "You are? How wonderful. Is it just you or is the entire crew enjoying themselves?"

"The entire crew," he says, risking his voice. He's surprised when it comes out even and calm. "We thought it highly overdue."

She nods, approving. "It is. I'm sure the request was well-received." Brightens her smile and looks at Spock. "Well, you're just going to have to join me at the house for lunch. It's been too long since we shared a proper meal, Spock."

-

The family estate is massive. "You grew up _here_?" he murmurs.

"Yes," she replies.

Damn. It's huge. Sprawling, ornate, and _damn_ , he's impressed.

"This is the family's ancestral home," Spock explains as Amanda leads them through the house. Inside, she and Spock both unwrap the shawls that cover their heads, protecting them against the heat of the midday sun, and hand them off to waiting staff. "It is held in trust by the House. My father's personal estate passed to me when he assumed the family's leadership."

"So -- "

"Some day, the same will happen to me," she nods. "Yes."

"Spock." Amanda turns, looking at them. "Would you speak to the kitchen staff?" She smiles, gesturing at Chris. "I'm sure you're familiar with the captain's preferences."

It's blatantly transparent, but Spock nods and follows her mother's instructions anyway.

Amanda doesn't wait long. A few seconds after Spock's departure, she looks at him with knowing eyes. "You're in love with her."

"Ma'am -- "

"You are," she says, smiling. "Relax, Captain, I've no intentions of throwing you to the sehlats." She gestures him into a chair and sits across from him. "It's a relief to know there's someone. I'd worried after everything -- "

"After everything, what?" he asks.

Amanda exhales. "When Spock chose Starfleet Academy over the Vulcan Science Academy, there was more than a little controversy generated. She did it for my sake, you see. Spock's always been very protective of me and," she smiles wryly, "I've had my share of run-ins with the administration over there. Professional ones, of course, but they hold grudges and any insults offered against me -- " She shakes her head. "Spock refused to accept the offer they made her and that caused her personal problems. It's tradition on Vulcan to arrange marriages."

"And her husband to be didn't take kindly to his bride rejecting all Vulcan?"

"Precisely," Amanda nodded. She looks at him. "She's my daughter, Captain, and I love her dearly. I want to see her happy, I want to see her safe, but I must warn you."

That's not what he was expecting. Certainly not what he thought she was going to say and her eyes warm with amusement at his expression.

"Yes, I know that's not what I should be saying, but it's the truth. Loving a Vulcan is the most difficult thing you'll ever do, Christopher. She'll demand things of you, expect things, and though she might adore you, she will never, ever _say it_. Some things she'll bend to. Some things she'll share with you, but others like that, she simply cannot. It's impossible to explain until you've experienced it, but be ready. Nothing you've ever done will compare."

"I don't care," he says, surprising them both. "I love her anyway."

Amanda's smile widens. "Good. Because she is my daughter and I do love her and if you hurt her -- "

"Understood, ma'am. Completely."

-

He's in love with her.

He finds Spock sitting outside with a cup of saya, looking out at the horizon. She's just sitting there in the heat of a Vulcan afternoon, hair an artfully arranged mass of curls atop her head, looking like an oasis in the desert, and Chris is hers. That's the thing of it. Whatever else they are, whatever he's told himself in the silence of his quarters, that's the pure and honest truth. He's _hers_. Hers to command, hers to take, hers to do with as she pleases.

All she has to do is say the word.

The mystery of it is that she does.

Looking at him, Spock is a blank. He can't read her yet, not with any regularity. He wonders if there will be a day when he will. He thinks of her mother, the Lady Amanda with eyes that can still light with laughter after decades on this world, and wonders what secrets she might divulge on the matter.

What she will. With her daughter's eyes on him, Amanda's words become extraordinarily clear.

Spock tips her head, disturbing not a single curl atop it, and then holds out her hand. "Please," she asks and, for a moment, he sees her fear.

When his hand reaches for hers, he realizes it's shaking.

He doesn't know how to deal with this, so he follows what she showed him. He presses two fingers against hers and sits at her side. "I don't know how you do this," he says, fingers light on hers.

She doesn't smile but the touch of it reaches out around him anyway. He has the sense of amusement, gentle and almost loving, and it folds around him, wrapping him up. God, if this is what it's like for them all the time, he never wants it to end.

"I love you," he murmurs, and he's embarrassed.

Within her thoughts, he hears laughter, silver-light and absolutely not his. She's beautiful. Laughing. And he wants her.

She inclines her head and, true to form, says nothing.


End file.
